Hopeless
by gimmeabreakxD
Summary: To him, love isn't roses and chocolates and romantic candlelit dinners over glasses of red wine. Love is blushing until he ruptures his spleen, stumbling over his words, and making a fool of himself to make her smile...because that's how hopeless he is.
1. the hopeless stutterer

**Chapter 1**

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><p><em>The Hopeless Stutterer<em>

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><p>He stood on tiptoes clumsily, desperately trying to get a good view of the island opposite to the one where he stood—or rather, to get a good view of the <em>person<em> on the island opposite to the one where he stood. Not that he'd admit that anytime soon.

He held his breath, clamping his calloused hands firmly on the splintery wooden rails that surrounded Link Island, hurting his palms in the process but shrugging it off anyway. He could have sworn he saw a flash of red and brown—but it was hard to tell, as the waves were constantly breaking into the sides of the island and showering him with cold, salty sea water.

He sighed: a long, sorrowful sound. He knew he looked pathetic. He _was_ pathetic—standing _un_hidden on a separate island at least fifty meters away trying to catch a glimpse of the female rancher who was painfully oblivious to him and his feelings.

He thought about how awkward it would be if she just happened to walk in on him right then and there. He knew it was very possible, but he also knew Chelsea wasn't the type of person who would jump to conclusions. He could get away with a good lie.

_What, am I not allowed to hang around on Link Island and admire the beauty of nature?_

He laughed silently, seeing as the beauty of nature was constantly assaulting him with sea water and beating him up with painful pecks from feathery abominations called seagulls.

He quietly slipped into Ranch Island (he had no qualms doing so, as Chelsea had explicitly announced to the villagers that they were welcome to step into her ranch anytime they wished), hurriedly sprinted across Verdure Island and quickly retreated back to the inn. He wasn't hypocritical enough to deny that it hurt to love someone who barely even acknowledged his existence, but he wasn't brave enough to admit that it did. And he certainly wasn't stupid enough to walk around the town bandying about his unsuccessful spying missions on Chelsea whilst situated on a place where she could easily walk in on him. He chuckled ruefully, muttering incomprehensible things that sounded suspiciously like "love" and "stupid."

He pushed the inn's front door open, none too gently, expecting to see Carol on the front desk, grinning at him warmly and asking him how his day went. What he saw instead was red and brown and bright, bright blue—in a split second, his eyes widened and his mouth hung open, and it was very fortunate for him to have realized it on time to remedy it.

Chelsea looked up at him, smiling cheerfully, blissfully unmindful of their close proximity. Good heavens, she had nice teeth… and beautiful eyes the shade of—of—of—_remember-me blue_, was it? No, he was sure it had "forget" in its name… _don't-forget-me blue?_ He wasn't sure at all; naming colors wasn't his forte. And her lips looked so soft and delicate; her dark brown hair gracefully tumbled around her shoulders, gently framing her face. Mark managed to recollect his senses and immediately forbade his traitorous eyes from staring. Staring at someone—especially at Chelsea—was plain rude, and he'd never forgive himself if she caught him in the act. At least he didn't stare at the parts of her body that were considered private.

"Hello, Mark," she chirped, fiddling with the edge of her bandanna, perfectly unaware of the blond rancher's recent staring escapade. "Done for the day?"

Mark's head was throbbing painfully, as if it had been pecked by a battalion of angry, hungry silkie chickens. Chelsea knew his name. She knew him, heavens, _she knew him._ He could have danced and celebrated right then and there, but thankfully, his mind hadn't left him yet, although he did have a difficult time trying to look at her directly. So he settled for the next best thing—he stared at the floor.

Except… there was no stopping the big, goofy grin that slowly lifted his cheeks lopsidedly. He mentally slapped himself, trying to change the grin into a suave, cocky smirk, but his efforts were in vain. The lopsided, goofy grin refused to be dislodged from its place, and he knew how stupid he must have looked like.

He found out that she knew his name, and here he was acting all happy and giddy as if she'd just confessed her undying love for him.

Then he realized that Chelsea had just greeted him, and he was standing in front of her like an idiot, blushing and smiling at the carpeted floor while having an internal warfare with himself about goofy grins and cocky smirks and undying love.

"H-hi, Chelsea," he stammered, earning himself another mental slap from his unforgiving self—why, O merciful heavens, why on earth did he have to stutter? She was probably thinking how incredibly idiotic he was and why she'd bothered to talk to him in the first place.

But when he dared to glance at her, she didn't look angry or annoyed. Mark breathed a sigh of relief, discreetly wiping his sweaty palms behind his overalls. Chelsea wasn't mad at him. She just looked… amused?

"Are you tired? Hungry?" she asked, her head tilted to one side, a hand resting on her hip. "Wanna head to the café and grab something to eat?"

Would he? Holy Volcano Island, _would he?_

He almost opened his mouth to cry a resounding "YES!" but thought better of it. Doing that would only make him seem desperate. Well, in many ways, he was, but he wasn't about to let her know that.

He was sure he'd stutter again if he tried to talk, and he decided firmly that he'd done enough stuttering for the day, so he played it safe and settled for a simple nod. Hey, at least he managed to do something in front of her that he wasn't nervous of, be it as simple as a nod.

"Perfect!" She beamed and clapped her hands once. "Come on!"

She grabbed his hand and, after bidding goodbye to Carol, dragged him out of the inn and into the café; all the while Mark had been blushing like crazy at the feel of her roughened hands against his—he'd expected her hands to be rough, what with all the hard work she does on the farm, and he wasn't disappointed. He knew he'd be a bit sad if he found out that her hands are baby-smooth.

She let go of his hand, greeted the café's occupants, and skipped merrily to one of the empty tables, waving at him to hurry up. He looked around and saw the usual customers—Vaughn, the anti-social cowboy who was brooding in a corner, and Denny, the friendly fisherman who was his best friend. Denny waved at him and Mark gave him a nod and a smile before clumsily making his way to where Chelsea sat.

"What would you like?" she asked lightly, resting her chin on her hands, her lips curved into a wide smile that slightly showed the even white teeth underneath.

Mark almost didn't hear the question; he was too busy trying not to stare. He knew he'd probably never get another chance to look at her this close, but _she_ was _Chelsea_ and he couldn't bring himself to openly stare at her because he felt he was _violating_ her or something whenever he did.

So he forced himself to ogle at the counter and think of what to order. He was a regular at the café, too; it was actually where he and Denny got closer, both being patrons and all. He always ordered a sandwich and a cup of hot milk if he could afford it—which, thankfully, he could at the moment—but he was worried she'd think he's unsophisticated to order something as… _simple_ as a sandwich. He knew most women would call it sexist or something, but he decided to just go with it.

"Um, I think I'd like a—a—a sandwich," he mumbled, feeling the heat rise up to his cheeks. Oddly, it didn't seem to surprise him at all, so he supposed he must be getting used to blushing whenever he tried to talk to Chelsea—or to any unmarried female for that matter. He was aware, though, of the immediate need to hide his face from her, so he looked down at the table and hoped she wouldn't notice anything.

"Same here." She chuckled, apparently not noticing her companion's embarrassment, much to Mark's relief. "Drinks?"

"…hot milk," he replied timidly, afraid of sounding so ready as if he'd given it a lot of thought even before she'd asked him. He knew he was probably over thinking things, but he supposed it was better than under thinking, because at least the former will prepare him while the latter would surprise him. And he was _not_ a fan of surprises, at least not in situations involving a certain brunette rancher.

"Sounds good," she said, placing both hands on the table to heave herself up. That sent something in Mark's mind snapping into place, and before he knew it, his urge to be a gentleman got the better of him: he bolted upright and braced himself on the table.

"I'll get it," he said before he could stop himself and over think again.

"Hm? No, it's okay," she said calmly, beckoning him to sit.

"N-no, I insist," he said, turning red in the face again. He wondered why she hadn't even noticed, but then he realized he didn't have the time to wonder. "Please."

Chelsea stared at him curiously for a moment and just when he thought his head was going to explode from all the blood rushing to it, she smiled at him and gently sat back down.

He sighed in relief but then caught himself in the process and managed to cover it up with a quiet cough, hoping against hope that she hadn't noticed the slip-up. He didn't have the time to worry, either, so he walked up to the counter and gave Haila their orders.

"I love seeing young lovers in my café," Haila told Mark as he was in the process of picking the tray up right after paying.

His head, bent down to focus on the food tray, snapped up to gawk at her with wide, bewildered eyes. He tried to ask her what she meant but he knew he'd stutter again, as usual—even if she wasn't Chelsea, what she said has something to do with Chelsea, and annoyingly, that was enough to make him stutter—so he opted to gawk at her until she decided to elaborate.

…which she did.

"Look at you, all red and flustered," she teased good-naturedly. "You got yourself a keeper, sonny."

_Lovers? Keeper…?_

"B-but – but – we aren't –" He earned his third mental slap for the day, courtesy of himself. He was a hopeless stutterer when it came to Chelsea and he could _probably_ live with that, but stuttering when simply talking about Chelsea was a little bit too much.

Haila simply laughed at him, adding to the pile of embarrassment already resting on his shoulders at the moment.

"Your girlfriend's waiting for you, dear," the old lady chided, "and you really shouldn't make her wait."

He nodded dumbly and made his way to the table, thankful for the safe arrival of the tray; he honestly thought he'd drop it, for his ears throbbed so much.

_Girlfriend…_

"Yay! Food!" Chelsea cried, grabbing one of the sandwiches and unwrapping it enthusiastically. She bit into it ravenously, a single bite filling her entire mouth, and Mark smiled to himself, wondering how he could still find her adorable even with table manners like that.

He picked the other sandwich and began to unwrap it carefully—Chelsea may not be fussy about table manners but he was, and even if Denny always told him that table manners weren't manly at all, he wasn't about to just give them up and eat like a Neanderthal on the table.

"So, Mark," Chelsea said through a mouthful of sandwich, "I saw you at Link Island earlier. What were you doing there?"

He was glad he hasn't bitten into the sandwich yet, because if he did, all his table manners would have flown out of the window, what with all the coughing he did after choking on his own saliva. He grabbed the glass of milk and drank it in large gulps. Chelsea had been patting his back all the while, concern etched on her face.

"You okay?" she asked, and despite himself he couldn't help but reward himself with a mental high-five at the genuine worry in her voice.

"Yeah, thanks," he replied sheepishly, wiping his mouth with one sleeve. There was one thing to be thankful for the choking, though, because it gave him enough time to think of a possible excuse to avoid being caught as a stalker—although his crimson cheeks and guilty grin would probably give him away faster than he could say "B-b-but –"

"Erm, I… I was admiring the ocean earlier," he offered lamely, crossing his fingers under the table in a silent, desperate prayer. He knew his excuse was weak and he knew she'd see through it right away and he knew she'd never, ever talk to him again if she did, which he hoped she wouldn't.

But she only nodded and smiled knowingly.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" she said, drumming her fingers on the table. "I always go there whenever I have free time."

He exhaled a held breath, relief flooding him for the fourth time that day. He felt a little guilty about lying to her, but at least it wasn't a complete lie—he _was_ admiring something, although it wasn't the ocean, and it wasn't exactly _something_ as opposed to _someone._

He smiled inwardly. He'd make sure she wouldn't know any of that for as long as he lives, which, for all he knew, might span a hundred years—after all, his ancestors were famous for longevity.

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><p><em>©2008 Marvelous Entertainment Inc. All rights reserved.<em>

_Harvest Moon® and © 1998-2009 Natsume Inc._


	2. fishing trips and questioned sexualities

**Chapter 2**

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><p><em>Of Fishing Trips and Questioned Sexualities<em>

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><p>The warm summer air blew its balmy breath from across the ocean, creating ripples on the surface of the water, rustling through the network of branches and leaves of the nearby trees, carrying with it dust and dirt and sand and the salty, tangy smell of the sea. Seagulls alternately swooped in and took flight, filling the air with the echoes of their noisy screeches and the sound of their flapping wings.<p>

Mark, with one eye closed, wiped sweat from his brow and issued forth a long, low whistle from pursed lips. He was sitting on the pier where Will's ship was docked, gently rocking and swaying with the waves. The stifling heat made him sleepy—the drowsiness that hung in the air was almost palpable; he'd almost dozed off seven times before deciding to fish with an eye closed for five minutes at a time.

He gave the fishing rod in his hand an impatient shake, wondering why he hadn't got a single bite yet. He'd been sitting there for three hours already, his feet dangling over the waters, his hat and an empty pail sitting beside him, and his patience has almost reached its end. He glared at the ocean where an occasional fish swam up to the surface, so _frustratingly_ close to the hook, although none actually had the interest to bite the line. Mark wondered what Denny would do during days like this, but he realized Denny probably never had days like this.

Why did he go fishing again?

Oh, that's right. Lanna had asked him for a gift: any large fish, specifically. He had no idea what the gift was for, since it was neither her birthday nor any kind of holiday known to man. He also had no idea why she didn't just catch one herself, being an excellent angler and all, or why she didn't just ask Denny to do it for her.

Had Chelsea asked him, he probably would have sat there until he got a bite, even if it took days. The last time he'd seen her was three days ago, when he'd been walking to Chen's shop and she'd been dashing out of it. She seemed to be in a hurry that time, but she'd managed to wave at him before scurrying to her farm.

The last—and first—time he talked to her was three weeks ago, at Haila's café. He'd made a great stutterer then, and he was sure he'd make a greater one if and when they talk again.

He was as lousy a talker as he was an angler.

He exhaled sharply and shut his eyes in irritation. He was never good at fishing, and he'd admit it to anyone who bothered to ask—even to Chelsea, and that was saying something. He had to wonder, though, why it was that in all the (rare) fishing trips he'd gone to, he'd managed to catch at least a fingerling, while now, when he had a _bit _more experience, he couldn't even catch a boot.

He wrinkled his nose, ruffling his hair in annoyance. That's it, he's had enough. He put his hat back on, stood up, grabbed the still-embarrassingly-empty pail, and shouldered the fishing rod he'd borrowed from Denny.

He slowly made his way away from the dock to the shabby little cottage at the edge of the beach. He raised his fist to knock but hesitated for a while, contemplating on whether he should tell Denny about his great fishing failure and whether his best friend would laugh at him for it.

_It's just Denny. So what if he laughs at me? We laugh at each other all the time._

The thought somehow encourages him, and, squaring his shoulders proudly, proceeded to rap three times on the splintery wooden door.

It swung open to reveal a tangle of dark, curly hair, a purple bandanna atop, and an ear-to-ear grin underneath.

"Hey, Mark," Denny greeted a little too cheerfully, stepping back to let the other in. "How's the fishing trip?"

Mark stepped in, feeling his face fall a little at the thought of having to recall his embarrassment. He took a deep breath and stared at his friend, while a part of his mind wondered what could have made Denny so happy today. He shrugged it off, though—Denny just probably hung out with Lanna all morning.

"I didn't catch a thing," he mumbled, looking down at the ground to hide his face. He could feel the heat crawling from the back of his neck to his ears, before finally staining his cheeks. Goddess, who knew confessing a failure could be so embarrassing?

"Pfffffft…"

Mark looked up at the sound of the weird, stifled noise and realized that Denny had clamped his hand tightly to his mouth in order to keep himself from laughing. The mirthful fisherman was rapidly turning red in the face, and Mark knew his friend wouldn't be able to keep it in for long…

…and he was right.

Denny burst out laughing, doubling over with one hand clutching at his stomach, the other slapping his knee. Tears were starting to roll down his cheeks, and for a minute he was laughing so hard that no noise came out of his mouth. His nostrils flared, his loud guffaws filled the shack, and his mouth kept trying to form words but he was laughing too hard that he simply can't talk.

Mark looked away, slightly wounded. He had expected Denny to laugh at him, but not this hard; besides, he'd actually expected Denny to at least comfort him with something like, "Aw, man, that sucks, but these things happen."

"Finished?" he growled when the fisherman had finally calmed down a bit.

"So—so—so you're telling me, bro," Denny wheezed between gasps, "that you just sat there for three hours waiting for a bite?" He gave a little laugh at "three hours."

The blond rancher had to restrain himself from rolling his eyes—that wasn't a manly thing to do, according to Denny. "Yeah, 'course I did. That's what fishing is about, right? Patience and stuff?"

"Yeah, and you've got patience, Mark, I'd give you that. Only…" Denny started laughing again, harder this time, so Mark simply stood there watching his best friend make fun of him. He couldn't exactly turn on his heels and storm out—that would be plain rude. So he waited for Denny to calm down enough to talk.

Denny wiped the tears from his eyes and began to talk.

"…o-only… ha-ha-ha, ha-ha-ha…" The words were drowned by tiny fits of laughter that had Mark straining his ears to understand, "ha-ha… only_ you forgot the bait!"_

Denny had said the last four words so loudly that it stunned the blond, and the happy fisherman watched with growing amusement as his best friend's expression swiftly changed from surprise to realization to a mental slap (yep, he was familiar with that expression) to red-hot fury.

"You…" Mark said, his voice trembling with barely-contained anger. "You knew I forgot… and you didn't even tell me?"

Apparently, Mark's resentment only served to amuse Denny even more, and the latter actually managed to laugh again as he told the seething rancher that it was too funny for words that Mark had handled three hours of sitting on a pier with a bait-less rod in his hand without even realizing it.

"I-I mean," Denny explained haltingly, his hands raised in front of him – his laughter was beginning to take a toll on his breathing, much to Mark's delight, "you l-looked at the hook, right? You looked at it. And you didn't even notice you didn't have a bait!"

People do crazy things when blinded with fury. That's the only explanation Mark can come up with in defense to what he did next.

With an outraged cry, Mark flung himself onto Denny, who was caught completely by surprise and tumbled backwards, _unintentionally_ bringing his friend down with him: the fisherman ended up flat on the floor, while the rancher fell on top of him, straddling his waist. Popper was knocked away from Denny's bandanna and was angrily chanting things neither men paid attention to.

Mark bent down and grabbed fistfuls of Denny's shirt and shook him violently, while the latter, impervious to the former's genuine rage, began laughing again—which, needless to say, only made the already furious blond even more furious.

"So you think it's fun to play me for a fool, huh? Do you?" Mark snarled, his voice rising dangerously.

He gave Denny another vicious shake in a failed attempt to stop the fisherman from laughing. Mark ground his teeth together, trying to control his temper before he manages to do something serious.

"You're a bad sport, Mark!" Denny laughingly blurted out, squirming under Mark's weight. "And your face is all red, as if your dad's just caught you mast—"

"SHUT IT!" Mark yelled at the top of his lungs in order to drown out his friend's last word, thinking it was the last thing he needed to hear at a time like this.

"What's going on in—oh."

Both men turned their heads to the general direction of the voice and saw, much to Mark's dismay, a wide-eyed Chelsea framed in the doorway, her gaze darting back and forth from Mark to Denny.

"Am… am I interrupting something?" she began cautiously, a hand crawling up her shirt to fiddle with her neckline. "I heard shouts, so I came to check… should I call a—a—um, anyone?"

Mark then realized the compromising position he was in: Denny, who was starting to laugh again, was flat on his back, and Mark was straddling him.

_Holy crap._

He frantically scrambled off his friend, who seemed to enjoy being acquainted to the floor and had made no move to get up. He faced Chelsea, fighting down the blush that threatened to rise, determined to save his last shred of dignity.

Why did it have to be _Chelsea_ and why did it have to be _now?_

"It's—it's not what it looks like, Chelsea," he said, feeling a drop of sweat roll down the side of his head.

To his left, he heard Denny laughing softly to himself, as if enjoying a private joke of some kind. Chelsea, on the other hand, frowned at him, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Tell me what it is, then, because it certainly seems to be what it looks like."

"I—I—I…" the poor blond struggled for words. His hands balled into fists at either side of him. His sweat-soaked shirt clung to his skin, and he felt a drop of perspiration trickle down his back. "_I'm not gay!_"

Silence hung in the air like thick, invisible curtain draped all over them, muffling every sound that dared to be heard, bringing into focus everything else: the fishing pole he'd borrowed lying all but forgotten in a corner, the empty pail tipped on its side a few feet from it, the cracks along the worn wooden doorway.

Mark exhaled sharply, causing his nostrils to flare. He was slightly satisfied that he managed to shut both up: Chelsea, standing stock-still in front of him, and Denny, sprawled on the floor to his left.

His eyes strayed to Chelsea and he noticed, with an unpleasant jolt, that her lower lip was quivering.

_But all I said was—_

"Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!"

Mark started, caught by surprise: somehow, he'd expected tears and sobs and apologies and awkwardness. He hadn't expected loud, boisterous laughter at all, although this was still awkward, which wasn't a good thing.

"…what…?" he muttered weakly, looking from Chelsea to Denny—who had joined in on the laughter—to seek an answer on their faces. All he saw were laughing mouths, reddening faces, leaking tears, and flaring noses.

He rubbed the back of his neck in resignation, deciding that it was no use to extract anything out of them while they were in this state. He'd have to wait until they calm down enough to allow for talking.

…which took quite a while.

"No one said anything about your orientation," Chelsea explained in a shaky voice, wiping tears away from the edges of her eyes. "I really, honestly thought you were starting a brawl or something. It never crossed my mind that you might be…"

She giggled. "…unless, you really were going to…"

She once more erupted in a fit of chuckles, not bothering to finish both sentences.

Denny heaved himself off the floor, and for once, Mark noticed he wasn't laughing. It made him feel a little better: at least there was someone to share the indignation with. He dimly registered that Popper was sulking in a corner, unnoticed by his owner.

"We weren't!" the fisherman retorted heatedly. "I'm not gay!"

Chelsea only laughed harder, and even Mark snickered.

"It's true!" Denny, for some reason, seemed to think that the other two were insisting otherwise and that he had to prove them wrong. "I like Lanna!"

It wasn't a surprise to Mark, and if it was to Chelsea, she did a great job hiding it. Every day, Mark had to listen to Denny's ramblings about how rich and beautiful Lanna's voice was, how soft and silky her hair was, how mesmerizing her eyes were and all those mushy things people say when they're in love, that they were imprinted so sharply in his memory—he could recite Denny's ramblings as easily as he could sow seeds.

"What about you, Mark?" Denny's voice snapped him out of his reverie about sowing seeds and mushy things.

"What about me?" he asked, wondering how long he'd been mulling over to lose the thread of conversation so quickly.

"Who do you like?"

"Who do I like?" he repeated, less as a clarification and more as a way of buying more time to let his mind catch up. "I like…"

He caught himself just in time: the name he was about to say happened to belong to the woman standing in front of him and he figured it probably wouldn't be a good idea to let her know he was head over heels for her, at least not this way, or not right now. Or not ever.

He realized that the room had gone deathly quiet again, and that both listeners wore the same look of rapt interest, their eyes silently prompting him to go on.

He hesitated. What was he supposed to say? He had no idea: his mind was alarmingly empty at the moment.

_Just… just say it, man. Say her name._

But how would she react? Would she be mad, annoyed, or scared? Would she ever talk to him again, or even look at him again?

_Get it together. Spit it out._

He cleared his throat, opened his mouth, and—

"…girls."

Denny snorted.

"Come on, Mark, be a man," he said, his dark eyebrows raised, his lean arms crossed. His eyes had a mischievous glint in it, but Mark shrugged it off as a work of his imagination. "We want a name."

Chelsea nodded fervently in agreement, her hands clasped in front of her chest.

Mark felt blood rushing to his face as he reassessed the situation.

First, he had to give them a name. He couldn't exactly invent one: he was never good at those kinds of things, and they'd catch him at it. Besides, it was difficult to pretend to like someone imaginary and invent their traits and features on the spot.

Second, if he did say a name, the whole town will know about it in less than two days, no questions asked. He was sure Denny wouldn't spread rumors, and he was sure neither would Chelsea, but the inhabitants of Sunshine Islands had a mysterious way of finding out happenings that were otherwise considered private.

It was the second that bothered him most: it meant enduring a tumult of intrigued questions and skeptical glances, and Mark always hated being in the spotlight.

He had no choice at the moment, though, so he mulled over whose name he should say.

He couldn't say Chelsea—no way. Under no circumstances was she to find out about his hidden feelings.

His thoughts wandered to Lanna, but he quickly dismissed the idea as ridiculous; sure, she was a catch (no pun intended), but he knew better than to start a passionate rivalry with his best friend.

Sabrina would be a fine choice: she was soft-spoken and mild-mannered, intelligent and agreeable. But he wasn't sure they'd buy it, since Denny had always known that Mark was only attracted to girls who aren't girly; besides, he remembered that Regis was Sabrina's father and that was reason enough to avoid dragging her into this.

Julia was very attractive in his opinion, and assiduous as well. She loved animals, too—something that would convince both Denny and Chelsea. Of all the unattached women in the islands, he'd talked to her the most. Or rather, she'd talked to him the most: more often than not, she does the talking and he does the listening, nodding periodically and blushing in embarrassment when he didn't know what to say.

Yeah, Julia seemed like a good pick, except when he recalled that she was Vaughn's cousin, and Vaughn was one of those people who gave the distinct impression of turning your guts inside-out if you messed with them—or their family, for that matter.

The other women were almost complete strangers to him.

So that left…

"I like Natalie," he said firmly, with a tone of finality that was almost ruined by his reddening cheeks (because he realized that Chelsea had been staring at him all while).

"_What?_" Denny stepped in front of him, blocking out Chelsea from his sight, and he saw the complete incredulity on his friend's face.

Mark considered: Elliot wouldn't kill him—he was too kind. And frail. He was sure Taro would be fine with it, and so would Felicia. Pierre seemed to harbor feelings for Natalie, but Mark figured he could explain everything to the gourmet. They were close friends after all.

"I like Natalie," he repeated, noting the unfamiliarity of the sentence in his mouth.

"No way," the fisherman murmured. "Do you believe him, Chelsea?"

Both of them turned to the doorway to find it deserted.

"Where'd she go?" Mark asked, knowing full well neither of them knew the answer. He was afraid she'd excitedly run off to share this interesting piece of news to everyone.

Denny shrugged. "Why did you lie, Mark?"

The blond involuntarily jerked—he hadn't expected Denny to see through his pretense. He hung his head in surrender, painfully aware that all attempts at denial would fail. Once Denny grasped the truth, he never let it go.

Mark felt his stomach lurch, knotting into a tight wad at his own tension.

If he knew Mark lied, then he also knew…

"…you knew?" Mark asked hesitantly. "About… about how I feel for…?"

The fisherman sighed, walking over to the corner where Popper had fluttered to and picking him up. He gave the bird an apologetic smile and placed it gently on top of his head. He turned to Mark with a knowing grin on his face.

He looked wise with that expression—that small, knowing, un-judgmental smile that wordlessly told the rancher that yes, he did know, and no, he never told anyone.

Mark quietly watched as Denny bent down to pick the discarded fishing rod, the empty pail, and another pail sitting in a corner that was filled with live, slimy worms.

The blond fought the laughter that was rising in his throat, but lost easily: he gave in to the mirth that shook his shoulders and unknotted the wad in his stomach. "Thought you'd forget it, too."

"No way in seven seas, bro." Denny chuckled, shouldering the rod. "You were fishing for Lanna, right?"

He nodded.

"Don't tell her I did all the work, all right?" the fisherman whispered dramatically, motioning to the fishing rod resting against his shoulder. "She wanted it to be from you."

As the men stepped out, two small giggling figures rushed past them to Verdure Island—Mark correctly identified them as Eliza and Charlie.

He thought he could hear them singing as they ran, and when he strained his ears to hear, his eyes widened and his mouth hung open. Denny was laughing, shaking his head while making his way to the ocean.

"Mark and Natalie, sitting on a tree! K-I-S-S-I-N-G!"

"That's what you get, you liar!" Denny called over his shoulder, chortling merrily when he caught sight of his friend's flabbergasted expression.

Mark shook his head slightly, watching the children run over the bridge and into the safety of Chen's shop. He saw this coming, and he thought he was prepared for it, but he should have known better.

"…K-I-S-S-I-N-G!"

He took his shoe off and threw it at the fisherman.

* * *

><p><em>©2008 Marvelous Entertainment Inc. All rights reserved.<em>

_Harvest Moon® and © 1998-2009 Natsume Inc._


	3. male bonding

**Chapter 3**

_Male Bonding_

..

.

"How many glasses have you had?"

The night was young, and the moon was rising. The sign on the door said _Sorry, we're closed_, but neither men paid attention to it, and neither did the old lady behind the counter.

Mark threw his head back and emptied his glass in three gulps, giving Denny a look as he set it down on the table with slightly more force than necessary.

"Seven," he replied, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

He'd been drinking at the café since six, and he'd had the place all to himself – that is, until Denny walked in and ruined the peace ten minutes ago.

"That's too much, Mark," said the latter, tracing invisible patterns on the table top. "You really should stop."

The blond snorted.

"I can handle myself, thanks," he replied dryly, leaning back on his chair and crossing his ankles underneath it. "Just let me drink all my troubles away."

Denny placed his forearms against the table, the corners of his mouth turned up.

"You're drinking _hot milk_, dude," he quipped, then laughed quietly – Haila hated noise in her café, especially at this time of the night.

_Well, yeah, he's right._

Mark rolled his eyes, unable to think of a good comeback. So what if he preferred milk to alcoholic beverages? It was healthier, to say the least. He was sure Denny shared the same dislike for alcohol, although the man wouldn't admit it anytime soon.

"That's not manly," Denny admonished, gesturing to Mark's eyes. "I thought I've told you that already."

Mark couldn't help but smirk. Denny had issues about manliness: he hated anything that would even remotely emasculate him, and he tended to force his beliefs on Mark whenever he felt it necessary – because, according to him, Mark was his best friend, and he didn't want people to think that his best friend was feminine. Leave those kinds of things to Will, he told Mark once.

"I know." Mark grinned. "I was just pissing you off."

Denny wrinkled his nose and blew at his curly fringe.

"That's not manly," the rancher said jokingly. "Only girls do that."

The fisherman laughed, but subsided immediately after catching Haila's glare.

"You know what's really manly?" Denny asked in a mock whisper, leaning forward so that his face was inches from Mark's.

"What?"

"Getting caught straddling your best friend!" Denny exclaimed, his voice rising in laughter. He laid his forehead on the table and slapped it repeatedly, his shoulders shaking with his sniggers, completely ignoring Haila's agitated "sssshh's" and "keep it down's."

Mark gave the old woman an apologetic look before turning to Denny. That joke was a low blow, and he had to even the score.

"You know what's even manlier than that?" he asked, keeping his voice as low and even as possible.

Denny looked up and wiped tears from his eyes. "What?" he said thickly.

"Rambling about a woman," Mark replied, smirking at the look of indignation on his friend's face. He leaned back and crossed his arms, contentedly watching Denny open and close his mouth in an effort to form coherent words: he only succeeded in looking like a goldfish.

"I do not!" the fisherman said, although his face was rapidly resembling a tomato.

"You don't?" the blond teased. " 'Gosh, Mark, her eyes are so beautiful and deep and I feel like I'm getting lost in them or something –' "

"At least I don't stutter in front of Chelsea!"

Mark gaped. Now _that_ was a low blow!

"That's not fair!" he hissed angrily. "I never mentioned a name!"

Denny waved a hand nonchalantly. "Oh, stop worrying. S'not like anyone's around."

"Not quite."

Both of them turned to see Vaughn lounging at the table next to theirs. He was smirking slightly, purple eyes studying the disbelieving fisherman and the stunned rancher.

Now when did he – ? The sign on the café's door said _closed_, didn't it?

"You were eavesdropping!" Denny blurted out, pointing an accusing finger at the amused man. "That's not manly!"

Mark snorted. Vaughn had just heard their jesting session and the first thing Denny worries about is the apparent unmanliness of eavesdropping.

"You… uh, you heard everything?" Mark began tentatively, afraid to rub the wrong side of the cowboy.

Vaughn nodded and pulled his hat down so that it covered most of his face, although Mark could have sworn that the man's smirk widened.

"Wouldn't tell a soul," he said. "Although that bit about getting lost in someone's eyes was pretty good."

Mark openly laughed while Denny looked offended.

"I'm sorry, but it just so happens that admitting to harbor feelings for a woman is manly!" he said firmly, jaws set and arms crossed. Even Popper chirped in agreement to what Denny said, although Mark wasn't sure the bird knew what it was agreeing to.

"You just made that up," Mark mumbled to himself, but both men miraculously heard him – how they did was beyond him.

Vaughn made a funny coughing noise in his throat, and only upon seeing the look of complete astonishment on Denny's face did he realize that Vaughn, the antisocial, brooding cowboy, was laughing.

Mark laughed, both at Vaughn and the look on Denny's face (priceless), and before they knew it all three of them were laughing in unison, paying no heed to the noise they made – Haila had left the counter and retreated to the kitchen long before, mumbling something that sounded like "men."

"So, Mark…" Denny said, after a few minutes of breath-catching. "Aren't you going to tell us why you were… uh, drinking?"

"Well, uh –"

"And we'd really appreciate it if you'd just come sit with us instead of eavesdropping in a separate table, cowboy," the fisherman said, turning around to glare at the silver-haired man who merely shrugged and obediently joined them at the table, muttering, "Ain't the boss of me."

"Go on," Denny addressed Mark, plucking Popper from his head to reposition the bird on his shoulder.

"Um, I –"

"And since Mr. Eavesdropper here already knows about your little lie, I think it's safe to talk about it."

"Why Natalie?" Vaughn suddenly asked.

"Why not?" Denny replied snidely, leading Mark to believe that he was still offended by the slight about his masculinity. "Go on, Mark."

"Well, I –"

"Why her?"

"What, are you interested in her or something? And here I was thinking you were asexual…"

"Go on, Mark," It was Vaughn's turn to prod him.

"Well, it's –"

"Why are you so interested in Natalie, anyway?" Denny interrupted for the third time.

"None of your business."

"Heh. You bring it up and you shy away from the topic." Denny shook his head in exasperation, taking a swig from a glass of hot milk Mark didn't notice was there. The fisherman turned to Mark impatiently. "Well? Are you gonna tell us anything?"

"Actually, I –"

"I'm not interested in Natalie."

Mark was getting annoyed at getting interrupted every time he opened his mouth.

"You are."

"I'm not."

"You are."

"I'm not."

"Just admit it, you introverted, brooding, eavesdropping, asexual cowboy!"

"Who are _you_ calling – no, wait. Never mind."

Mark, who had given up all hopes of ever being able to contribute more than two words at a time, resorted to watch the exchange take place with vague amusement. It did seem that Vaughn was interested in Natalie, and Mark was dimly reminded of the man's smirk when he'd overheard Denny's comment about Mark stuttering in front of Chelsea.

So Vaughn wasn't asexual after all.

He hid a smirk behind his fist at the thought of Vaughn blushing and stuttering in front of an oblivious, curious Natalie but his smirk quickly turned into a frown when he realized he had only recalled an embarrassing memory starring Chelsea and himself and substituted Vaughn and Natalie for them.

It had been a tough week for him, being the center of gossip and all: he'd woken up groggily on a Monday morning to find a _very_ happy Felicia waiting for him at the inn, telling him how happy she was that he'd taken interest in her daughter when there are a lot of eligible females in the island – he'd felt guilty then, but he didn't have the heart to tell her that it was all a lie, so he simply nodded and said thanks. What he had thanked her for, he didn't know.

Elliot had approached him the same day, embarrassedly informing the blond of his appreciation in taking notice of his sister, adding that he hoped Mark and Natalie would be happy as a couple. Mark had been as flustered as Elliot was, only managing to mumble a swift "thanks" before hurriedly walking away.

On Tuesday, it had been Taro's turn to thank Mark for harboring romantic feelings for Natalie. The old man had warned the rancher that he'd skin him alive and feed him to Lily's pet piranhas if he ever hurts Natalie's feelings. Mark had expressed doubt at the thought of Lily owning fish, to which Taro had narrowed his eyes and whispered, "That's what she wants you to think." Nonetheless, the exchange had left Mark wondering about the extent of the rumor: he'd only said he "liked" Natalie. He hadn't asked for her hand in marriage.

He'd visited Julia that day as well, and she'd surprised him by dragging him to a corner and unleashing a barrage of excited questions accompanied by a high-pitched squeal whenever he blushed and mumbled incoherently because he didn't know what to say. She'd performed a little dance then, chanting, "Oh, this is great, this is great."

He had even received a deathly glare from Vaughn as he left the shop.

Wednesday wasn't any better. Chelsea had vehemently sworn to him that she hadn't told a soul, and only after Mark had repeatedly assured her that he didn't blame her (he knew who the culprit were, anyway) did she calm down, and had been in the middle of a heartfelt apology for his fate when Denny had come along and mischievously yelled, "Adulterer!" so loud that Chelsea had only managed to mutter a quick "sorry" before scrambling away.

Wednesday would have been better, except…

Except Lanna had been (and still was) upset at him. She'd tried not to show it, but he could tell: everything she'd said to him was monosyllabic, and when he'd confessed that the fish he'd given her was from Denny, she had garbled something like "need sleep" and walked away. He'd felt really guilty then, but he didn't know whether it was tactless to run after her or not.

Nope, not the best week of his life. He thought about blatantly denying the rumor, but he had no idea how the villagers would react, so he decided to let the matter rest for now.

At this point, he wanted nothing more than to sow some corn and pineapple seeds like he would have done had he owned a farm. Pineapples were a great money-maker, especially in Mineral Town – Jack was especially adamant on buying and sowing pineapple seeds every summer. Corn was nice, too – Jack had taught him how to make chicken feed using corn. Oh, what wouldn't he give to have a farm of his own…

He'd gather colored grass first – they weren't bad money-makers, after all, and in Mineral Town, they were very abundant. Then he'd buy a chick and name it something lame like Cluck or Yellow or something chicken-related (again, he was never good with names). He'd place the very first egg Cluck/Yellow lays in the incubator, and when the egg hatches, he'd name the chick Cluck2 – Yellow2 sounded weird to him. After that, when he had enough money to get by, he'd buy seeds. Pineapple seeds. A bag of pineapple seeds costs 1000G from Won, but when harvested… Goddess, he could only imagine.

"…Mark? Hey, bro, are you daydreaming?"

Mark dimly registered the bony hand that was waving in front of his face, occasionally hitting the tuft of yellow hair that jutted out from his hat.

"Seems like it," Vaughn muttered quietly, raising his hat's brim with one finger to take a better look at the situation.

"Daydreaming isn't manly at all," Denny said crossly, glaring at Mark. "What was it about?"

"…pineapples."

"_What?_" Denny hit the table forcefully, as if to emphasize his disgust. "Of all the things you could daydream" – he winced at the word – "about, you choose a summer crop?"

"Pineapples are great," Mark said shiftily, feeling the immediate need to defend himself. It wasn't like he'd been dreaming of marrying a pineapple or anything.

"Must be the milk talking," Vaughn murmured, his smirk growing wider by the second.

Denny stared at Mark with an expression that could only be accurately described as half-amused, half-disgusted, and Mark would have laughed at him if it weren't for the heavy drowsiness growing behind his eyes.

He'd forgotten that milk has never failed to make him sleepy.

"You got drunk off milk?" Denny asked, now with a hint of concern in his voice.

"I'm not drunk," the blond insisted. No one gets drunk off milk, not even Will. "I'm sleepy."

"What a pansy."

"At least I don't get lost in Lanna's eyes."

Mark heard the funny coughing noise again, along with Denny's indignant protests, and he smiled to himself as he settled his head more comfortably in his arms, attempting to take a nap if it's the last thing he did.

_…_

_©2008 Marvelous Entertainment Inc. All rights reserved._

_Harvest Moon__® and __© 1998-2009 Natsume Inc._

…


	4. two steps forward

**Chapter 4**

_Two Steps Forward_

..

.

_Crap._

He growled at nothing in particular, inwardly cursing the day the fishing rod was invented. He cursed its inventor, the inventor's parents, and the inventor's relatives up to their second-degree cousins, and the relatives' second-degree cousins' relatives up to their own second-degree cousins.

He cursed the day the festival was invented, but he refrained from cursing the people who attend it, because he knew that wouldn't be fair.

He wanted to curse the festival's judge as well, but he figured he'd rather get back at the said judge personally.

Above all, he cursed himself for being so susceptible to threats to his own masculinity, leading him to believe that Denny has rubbed off on him a bit too much. Of all the things he could pick up from Denny, it had to be the man's fanatic obsession to manliness. Why couldn't the passion for fishing rub off on him instead?

_Stupid fishing festival._

He'd seen it coming weeks before, and he'd firmly decided that no matter how much anyone prodded him, he wouldn't enter. His recent fishing fiasco was the last nail to the coffin: he was determined to never even touch a fishing rod again for the rest of his life.

He was doing exceptionally well at it, too – fishing rods were to him as mouse traps were to mice. But then Denny had come along and told him that if he wasn't man enough to join, he might as well spend the rest of his life reading Shakespeare with Will.

The fisherman had then proceeded to call him names that he guessed were synonymous to "pansy," but he wasn't sure at all, since he wasn't even familiar with half the adjectives Denny used. He figured Denny had consulted the dictionary before egging him on.

Upon seeing that his insults didn't work on Mark, Denny had changed tactics: he had shrugged in an okay-fine-I-give-up way, saying, "I really thought I'd get you to join, Mark, seeing as you're a guy, but I guess you're just a guy on the outside."

Mark wasn't sure what had gotten into him, but he remembered standing up to full height, looking at a smirking Denny straight in the eyes, and proudly proclaiming, "You're on."

He growled yet again, blaming himself for his stupidity. If he wasn't so gullible, he wouldn't be here on Meadow Island on all fours, scouring the earth for some juicy worms to be used as bait. Denny had agreed to lend him a rod – which Mark had brought with him and was currently propped up against a tree – but flat-out refused to give him bait. "I wake up early each morning to catch them, bro. You should at least do the same," he'd said.

"Come on…" he muttered under his breath, his fingers digging into the earth. Why he hadn't at least looked for a spade, he didn't know. He didn't have the patience to go back to scout for one, though, so he'd decided to simply be resourceful and use his hands. "Where on earth are those worms?"

"You'd do better if you use a shovel or a hoe, you know."

His head snapped up to the direction of the all-too-familiar voice, and in a split-second he was up, dusting himself and straightening his overalls self-consciously in an attempt to make himself as presentable as possible, struggling to shrug off the fact that he was caught talking to himself.

_Talk about a blessing in disguise._

"H-hey, Chelsea," he greeted weakly, trying in vain to uncurl his tongue to hold a decent conversation with her for once. "What brings you here?"

"Same as you," she replied, gesturing to the hoe resting on her shoulder. "Although I have to admit, I'm not too keen on using my bare hands for digging."

He wanted to slap the living daylights out of himself right there, but he knew he'd only embarrass himself more if he did, so he resorted to doing it mentally. And harshly. It was awfully stupid of him to forget to bring a shovel in the first place, and now she'd think the same way.

"Well, I – I – I forgot to bring a shovel, actually," he stammered, accidentally biting his tongue slightly in the process: while it wasn't exactly painful physically, it was extremely so for his ego.

_Forget blessing in disguise. This is pure embarrassment._

"It happens to everyone," she said nonchalantly, waving a hand as if to dismiss the topic. "Hey, I have an idea!"

Mark, who was presently debating with himself on the best excuse to leave the island (and save his face), turned to look at her, his curiosity piqued. "What is it?"

"I have a hoe, right?" She grinned at him, flashing those perfect pearly whites he was so fond of.

He thought it was a ridiculous question to ask, since it was blatantly obvious and needed no confirming at all, but since she was Chelsea, he let it slide and nodded instead.

"And you don't, right?" Setting the hoe down, hands behind her, she took a step closer, and he had to physically restrain himself from jumping backwards: he was pretty sure that if he turned any redder, he'd rupture something vital – like maybe his liver or his colon or his uvula.

He nodded again. He was dimly starting to wonder if she was asking these painfully humiliating questions simply to rub his stupidity in his face.

"Aaaaand we both need worms, right?" Her smile grew by a fraction, and he grew apprehensive. He couldn't see where she was going with this, but she was going somewhere, and it made him feel uneasy.

"…yeah?"

"So, I was thinking…"

_Here it comes._

"Maybe you could dig using my hoe and we could share the worms?"

"What?" he spat out before he had the chance to stop himself. It wasn't fair! She wanted him to do the dirty work and share the loot. She may be Chelsea, but it wasn't fair at all. But she _was_ Chelsea, and that fact was drastically fogging his sense of judgment.

He heard her giggling.

"Oh, come on." She clasped her hands together and smiled sweetly up at him. "Please?"

"W-well, I –"

He noticed the way the early afternoon sun caressed the contours of her face when she tilted her head at exactly the right angle, how she smiled and no dimple showed at her cheeks, how freckles seemed to crowd around the bridge of her nose, how strands of her hair fell into her eyes that had his hands itching to just reach out and tuck them behind her ear –

_Damn, this woman's cheating._

"It's your choice, Mark," she quipped, an eyebrow quirked. "You could break your fingers trying to dig through this" – she scuffed her toe in the dirt to prove her point – "_or_ you could just use my lovely hoe and get the job done faster."

He exhaled sharply, studying the patterns his shoe imprinted in the dirt. He knew Chelsea had a point, and a good one at that. Besides, he really wanted to get all of this over with as quickly as possible, and he couldn't see the harm in helping her, either.

"Okay, fine," he grumbled, walking over to where she set her hoe down and picking it up, testing its weight with both hands. It was an old hoe, but it would do. "So… you're just gonna stand there and watch?"

The words were out of his mouth before he realized it, and it suddenly dawned on him that it was Chelsea he was talking to, and he was acting like a big jerk to her.

Worse, she actually looked slightly offended. He was beginning to panic: he was never good at dealing with women, especially with a woman he essentially admired. Who was currently offended.

"I-I didn't mean it that way – I mean, I didn't – it's just –" he mumbled, stumbling over the words. He rubbed the back of his neck in embarrassment, looking at everything but her: Goddess, it was difficult to talk. "Sorry."

She nodded once, gave him a small smile (he hoped to heavens that the smile meant he was forgiven), and picked up the pail he'd brought.

"Actually, I was thinking… you go dig, and I pull the worms out." She sauntered over to a corner of the island, testing the earth with a foot. "The soil's softer over here. Easier to dig into, you know?"

"Yeah." he walked over to where she stood, lightly dragging the hoe behind him. "I don't think they'd like it if we dig right in the middle of the island, anyway."

She laughed, dropping to her knees and motioned him to start digging. "I could only imagine the look on Regis's face."

He paused in the middle of heaving the hoe upwards and threw her fleeting look.

"Why Regis, of all people?" the hoe came crashing down against the earth, effectively loosening the bits of soil on the surface.

"I don't know, it's just…" she faltered for a while and watched him tilling the soil with practiced ease. "I've always been secretly afraid of him, you know."

He laughed and momentarily stopped digging to wipe sweat from his brow. "Makes two of us, then."

She looked up at him with a huge grin on her face, her eyes wide. "No way. You're afraid of him?"

He didn't answer right away; for a few minutes, the only audible sounds were the squawking of the seagulls, the waves crashing against the shore, the dull thud of the metal hoe against the soil, and Mark's occasional huffing.

"…who isn't?" came the reply at last as he set the hoe down and sat beside her. "I think I've dug deep enough. Or do I have to –"

"No, that'll do." She tugged at his sleeve to keep him sitting. "You can help me gather the worms instead."

"Wait a minute." he took his hat off and used it to fan himself: the heat was starting to be uncomfortable. "I was supposed to dig, and you were supposed to gather. That was the deal, right?"

"Oh, come on. You're done digging any – hey, I found one!" her hand suddenly shot forward and, grinning triumphantly, held up a fat, slimy earthworm and dropped it into the pail.

"You're good at this." He smirked, resting his chin on his palm. "Doesn't seem like you need any help at all."

"Shut up," Chelsea giggled, punching him lightly on the arm. "This'll all be over faster if we work together."

"All right, fine," he grumbled, grabbing the nearest bunch of worms – soil included – he saw and dumping them unceremoniously into the pail.

"Are you planning on using earth as your bait?" she chuckled, dumping a few more poor annelids into their stash. "I'm telling you right now, that wouldn't be a good idea."

"Very funny," he muttered, rolling his eyes. He was suddenly grateful Denny wasn't around, because if he was, he wouldn't have let Mark hear the end of it for not obeying "The Rules of Manliness" as he called it, which apparently commanded to never, _ever_ roll your eyes at anyone because only women do that.

"You don't grab them, you know," she explained, not unlike the way a mother does to a learning child. "You pull them out."

"Same difference."

"Do you like fishing, Mark?" Chelsea asked suddenly. He noticed that both of them have stopped foraging for worms, and that they were only sitting side-by-side in front of a freshly-dug pit of slimy annelids, doing absolutely nothing.

He mulled on whether he should tell her the truth or not, since he was too sure that the truth would never impress her. Oh well, maybe his honesty would.

"…no, not really," he said in a low voice, as if afraid of being overheard. "I'm horrible at fishing."

She tilted her head so that strands of her hair fell into her left eye as she shot him a sideways look.

"I can teach you if you want," she said slowly, even doubtfully, "but I guess Denny's a better tutor."

His stomach did a double somersault then that jolted him back to reality: he was alone at Meadow Island with Chelsea – _the_ Chelsea he adored so much, and he had even talked and joked with her for more than five minutes straight without blushing like a love-struck pre-teen or mumbling gibberish. He couldn't help but smile goofily – maybe talking to her wasn't as difficult as he'd thought. Maybe they could even be friends. His smile widened by a mile and he felt his heart grow so much lighter that he swore it would have flown out of his mouth if it weren't for his narrow throat.

And now… Chelsea was even offering to teach him how to fish.

_Pinch me, I must be dreaming._

"Well?" she asked, a funny look on her face. "You up to it?"

"Y-yeah… yeah, I'd love to," he said, mentally slapping himself once more to get rid of the stupid goofy grin. "What's with the look, though?"

"You were smiling," she replied, grinning as well. "Recalled a happy memory?"

_Uh, sure, let's go with that._

"Yeah," he replied distractedly. He was beginning to get nervous again – fishing lessons with Chelsea sounded immensely appealing to him, but it made him nervous as hell; while he wanted to impress her, he didn't want to make a fool of himself. He suddenly didn't know what to do with his hands, so he picked his hat up from his lap and commenced in twisting it to the point of deformation.

He ran a hand through his hair, fiddled with the straps of his overalls, scratched his nose, rubbed his eyes, tapped the side of the pail, bit his lip, tugged at his sleeves, poked the ground… anything to distract himself from over thinking.

_Come on, get it together, bro._

He inwardly smirked despite of himself. It was always funny to him how his inner voice sounded like Denny sometimes, and the slightly calming effect it has on him. Key word being _slightly._

He felt pressure on his shoulder and turned to see Chelsea's hand resting there, before looking up to meet her smiling eyes. He'd never admit it to anyone, and he knew he had to tear his gaze away soon, but he couldn't help but stare – her eyes just seemed so deep and alluring and –

He finally understood why Denny always got "lost" in Lanna's eyes. He made a mental note to never mention this to Denny – or to anyone, for that matter because a.) they'd never let him live it down and b.) it was simply too embarrassing.

"Don't be nervous," she said gently, but with a teasing grin, "Fish don't bite, you know."

"Oh yeah?" Standing up and dusting himself, he gave her what he hoped was a nonchalant smile. "How do we catch them if they don't?"

She grunted indifferently as he helped her up.

"Really smart, Mark," she teased, "and by smart, I mean… um, not smart."

To be perfectly honest, he tried holding it in. Really, really tried, but the fact that he went through the effort only served to remind him that if didn't let it out, he might fart.

So he burst out laughing.

He hadn't meant to do so in an oh-what-a-stupid-thing-to-say sort of way, but when he caught the look on Chelsea's face, he realized he just did. She was embarrassed, he could tell that much: her cheeks were tinged with pink, and she was shuffling her feet, but she had a small smile on her lips that made it clear that she wasn't mad.

"Smart," he said, unable to keep the gloating in his voice.

"Touché."

..

The sun was setting.

The ludicrous grin on his face widened slightly as he trudged his way to the beach. He was very careful not to skip happily (although he had to admit he fancied to), lest he wanted to put his masculinity on the line.

Everything in Sunshine Islands suddenly seemed so beautiful: even the weeds and branches scattered here and there were striking adornments to the ground.

His eyes scanned the perimeter of the beach, and he found what he was looking for.

"Hey, Den," he said, sitting beside the hunched figure on the shore.

"Hey, Stranger," the fisherman said, grinning sideways at his friend.

"Guess what happened today," Mark said, barely containing his excitement. He only hoped he didn't sound like a giddy schoolgirl, because if he did, he was sure Denny would beat the life out of him.

"Let's see…" Denny brought a hand to his chin and furrowed his brow. "You forgot to bring a shovel, so you gave up looking for worms and stayed in the inn wallowing in self-loathing for five hours before you decided to come here and inform me that you won't be joining the festival anymore."

"I never knew you had such a high opinion of me," Mark replied dryly, "but if you're interested, Chelsea and I gathered worms together, and she taught me how to fish. Properly, at least."

"Really?" Denny was grinning from ear to ear, and Mark was glad his friend was excited for him. "How did it go? Did you stutter again, or ended up straddling a log, or –"

"Wait a second."

Denny paused and stared at him expectantly, his brows disappearing into his bandanna. Mark may be dense from time to time (okay, more often than that), but he always knew when something was bothering his friend.

"Out with it, Denny." Brown eyes widened but he ignored it. "What's wrong?"

"What makes you say something's wrong?" Denny broke eye contact and stared at the sea, his profile illuminated and stained orange by the setting sun. Mark noticed his friend's Adam apple bob up and down.

"You're my best friend."

Sometimes, the fewer the words, the more meaningful the explanation is. And the more meaningful the explanation is, the deeper their friendship grows.

Denny released a shaky breath, a sure sign that he was struggling to keep himself together and avoid breaking down. His hands clenched and unclenched on either side of him, trapping fistfuls of sand in his palms every time he closed them.

Denny very rarely got upset, no matter how far they banter, no matter how few fish he caught, no matter how bad his day went.

Somehow, at the back of his mind, Mark had anticipated the answer long before Denny verbalized it.

"Lanna."

The fisherman's one-word explanation was more than enough for the blond, and he nodded, more to himself than to Denny.

"I thought so." He poked a finger in the sand. "She's still upset?"

"Yeah." Brown eyes lowered, and Mark saw that this was hurting Denny more than it did Lanna; his heart went out to his friend but he didn't know how to express it. "Because of that rumor about you and Natalie. She's locked herself in her room since yesterday, and she's refused to talk to anyone."

"Maybe… maybe she was upset 'cause she wasn't the first to know?" the blond asked tentatively; truth be told, he really had no idea what had upset Lanna – not that he'd spent a lot of time trying to figure it out in the first place.

Denny laughed a hollow, bitter, humorless laugh that was especially uncharacteristic of him.

"Really, Mark," he said in a low voice, "if you got any denser, you could pass for a rock."

The rancher let the insult pass, knowing full well that Denny hadn't said it to insult him; he'd merely said it to vent out his frustration. Still, he didn't say anything and simply waited for his friend to elaborate.

"She likes you, you know."

Mark's eyebrows pulled down. He frowned thoughtfully, trying to make sense of what Denny had said: was there some kind of hidden message in there, or was he supposed to take it at face value?

"Wait… you mean…?"

"You heard me." Rubbing his chin, Denny turned to pin Mark with his gaze. "She likes you. She has ever since you arrived here."

Mark wasn't the most perceptive person on Earth, but even he could see the jumble of despair, hopelessness, and something akin to emptiness stirring behind Denny's eyes. He himself was baffled, but after a few seconds of thinking, he wanted to slap himself on the forehead. Hard.

It was obvious, it was too obvious. He should have known it long before, but no, he was busy being too dense to notice all the hints Lanna had been dropping, and all the blushing he did around her were taken the wrong way. He had misled her.

"She told you that?"

The fisherman actually grinned, but it wasn't his usual roguish one. "What do you think we talk about when we're together? The ocean?"

"But you… you… does she know?"

"No." Denny pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, his mouth curving downwards into a grimace, "She'll never know."

"Why not?" It came out harsher than Mark intended. "Why don't you tell her?"

Denny turned to fully face him.

"I can't, Mark," he said, his voice breaking. "I can't. I… No, I just can't."

"Why not, Den?" It was much gentler this time. The blond noticed that Denny was close to breaking down, and he didn't want to push him hard.

"Lanna and I are friends. Good friends." He averted his eyes from Mark's and faced the ocean instead. The sun has already set, and the orange rays were no more. "I… I don't want to risk that friendship by confessing. What if she pushes me away? What if she avoids me? She likes you, not me. What she doesn't know won't hurt her."

"Yeah, but it will hurt you."

"I can take it. I just want to be able to be around her, that's all."

Mark shook his head slightly – in disbelief or to clear it, he didn't know. "Why, Den?"

The fisherman looked at him as if he just asked if the sky was blue. "Because I love her, you ninny."

This was a side of Denny he has never seen before. Sure, Denny loved teasing him and he could be really mischievous if he wanted to, but he was also loyal, trustworthy, and very perceptive. This Denny beside him was faithful, longsuffering, selfless, loving unconditionally… that was the kind of love that was portrayed in books and movies.

It humbled him in a way. It made him question the way he felt about Chelsea: he once thought he was madly in love with her, but seeing and hearing Denny break down and say these things rendered his own feelings as trivial.

He imagined himself in Denny's shoes: he imagined being close friends with Chelsea and having to listen to her rant about how much she adores Denny while being oblivious to his feelings. It hurt, and it hurt badly. He could only imagine what it had felt like for Denny.

He placed his hand on Denny's shoulder and gave it a little squeeze. "I'm – I'm sorry."

Denny half-smiled at him. "Don't be. It's not your fault she fell for you… although it's a tad ironic, don't you think? She just had to fall for my best friend."

The blond just shrugged. He was still baffled, but significantly less than before.

"You know the phrase, 'one step forward, two steps back'?" the fisherman asked, stretching backwards until his back met sand. He cushioned his head with his entwined hands underneath.

"Yeah, I've heard it once or twice," Mark replied, stretching out on the sand as well. "What of it?"

"Oh, nothing," came the reply. "I just thought it would be a fancy thing to say during times like this."

Mark laughed, and soon Denny joined him. How Denny could laugh in the state he was in, Mark didn't know. What he did know was that Denny was a very complex person – there were so many facets of him that were still unknown to him.

"So, what happened with your little date with Chelsea? You didn't actually end up straddling a log, did you?"

"No… actually, I think it went pretty well for once."

Denny smiled, and this time, it reached his eyes.

_…_

_©2008 Marvelous Entertainment Inc. All rights reserved._

_Harvest Moon__® and __© 1998-2009 Natsume Inc._

…


	5. the problems of the fairer sex

**Chapter 5**

_The Problems of the Fairer Sex_

_.._

_._

Mark considered himself a brave man.

Sure, he was no Beowulf, and he'd had his fair share of fright over the years, but to put it frankly, he wasn't particularly afraid of anything (save maybe hurting others' feelings and Regis). He had been exceptionally fearless as a child: growing up to the strict ways of a farmer, he was never afraid of the dark or some creepy wandering ghosts or monsters in the closet. All he'd really paid attention to was how to chop tree stumps properly, how to carefully wield a hoe so it doesn't strain his back, how to milk cows and how to take care of chickens – in short, he'd been raised a farmer, straight and true.

He always gave the credit to his severe lack of imagination, which was probably why he had never even imagined any kind of monster residing in their closet: if he had to think of a place where a monster would most likely live in, he'd point to a cave, not some tiny wooden furniture filled with moth-eaten clothes and (relatively) unwashed socks.

Presently, as an adult, there were far fewer things that would scare him compared to other people (say, for example, Elliot). He wasn't principally afraid of any kind of wild animal, he wasn't afraid of heights, he wasn't afraid of pain, he wasn't afraid of getting injured (although he preferred not to be), because spending more than half your life in a farm tended to neutralize those fears.

So, yeah, he was indeed braver than most. Which is why he was questioning why on earth he couldn't bring himself to knock on her door. The door was just a door, his fist, poised to knock and all, was just a fist, and _she _was just a woman. All he had to do was to knock, and when she opens the door, they'd talk. Simple, right?

No. Nothing was ever simple when it came to women. Even Will would admit that.

For the most part, making friends has never been difficult for him – it wasn't because he was cheerful or friendly, but he supposed it really was in human nature to smile in response to a greeting, or to laugh to a light joke, or to offer help when needed. It was easy, to say the least, but everything has an exception: he doesn't do well around the members of the opposite sex.

Sighing, he bent his head forward until his forehead came in contact with the wooden grains of the door. His mind was rambling, which wasn't a good sign. He pressed the exposed pad of his fingers against the door, welcoming the coldness of the wood and the smoothness of it.

_Why am I doing this?_

He kept telling himself that it was for Denny, that he was doing this for Denny's sake, but Goddess, he was afraid – there, he admitted it. _Afraid, scared, terrified._ Of the woman inside or of what would happen if he knocked, he wasn't sure, but it was increasingly difficult to think: his knees were shaking, knocking into each other occasionally; despite the cold, his palms began sweating, and he briefly considered taking his half-gloves off to ease the impression; his ears throbbed in synch with his head so accurately that he was inclined to think that his whole body was conspiring against him.

_Come on, dammit. Get it together. She isn't even Chelsea._

He backed away from the door, eyes shut tight, and inhaled deeply.

_That's it. Breathe._

He had no idea how long he stood in front of Lanna's door with his eyes closed, listening to the soothing sound of the waves and the distant hooting of an owl, inhaling the cool, salty night air, shivering slightly when the wind decided to dance around him, but when he opened his eyes, he was calm enough to think clearly – and, perhaps, speak coherently.

He and Lanna weren't that close – in fact, he wouldn't even consider her a friend. To him, she was more of an acquaintance than anything else; she was almost on the same league as Sabrina when it came to the closeness scale, only a bit higher up. Sure, he'd helped her pick out a rod once, and he'd even encouraged her to try a career comeback, but other than that, he'd never showed her any kind of emotion that would lead her to think he was interested in her. Except for blushing, which didn't count since he blushes whenever he's embarrassed – which happened pretty often.

He raised his fist again and, before he could stop himself, knocked smartly against the door, the sound reverberating through the air. He was careful to make the knock loud enough to be heard by Lanna, yet soft enough to avoid disturbing the neighbors.

He waited for a while for any sign that she'd heard.

It didn't come.

So he knocked once more, noticeably louder this time, but there was no answer from within. No sound, no voice, no sign of life.

Maybe she wasn't inside. He stepped back and checked his watch. 9:01 PM, it said. It was late, so she should be inside, although something told him that she wasn't sleeping because it was a mite too early to go to sleep yet.

He chewed on the inside of his cheek, debating on whether he should just give up now and try again tomorrow or pelt her door with obnoxiously loud knocks until his hand bleeds or he gets shouted at or she's forced to come out – not that he'd like to see his hand bleed, nor face the wrath of a sleep-deprived Gannon.

_Damn. I don't have time for this._

"Lanna," he called, while his fist busied itself by repeatedly rapping at her door, "please, we have to talk."

He paused and strained his ears for signs of her. None came.

"Please, Lanna." His voice was still controlled; he didn't want to clue the neighbors in and be the topic of a fresh rumor all over again. But there was no time to think about that.

Either Lanna was a heavy sleeper, or she just ignored him. The thought of _her _ignoring _him_ at a time like this somehow rubbed him the wrong way, even though he was aware of everything being his fault, and soon enough, logic gave way to emotion.

"Lanna!" To hell with the neighbors' wrath – he was getting desperate. This was too important, too personal, too crucial. "Open up, please, or I'll –"

The door opened a crack only wide enough to show Lanna's face. Her eyes were puffy and bloodshot, with dark circles underneath. She was noticeably paler than usual, even more so because of the silver moonlight fondling her face, but it only served to make her presence ethereal. Her hair was unkempt, tied back into a messy bun, unruly tendrils sticking out every which way. She was very rarely disheveled, yet she was – because of him. A pang of guilt struck him, and his stomach twisted itself to distortion.

"What do you want?" Her tone was icy, as was her gaze, and he shivered involuntarily. Her voice sounded raspy; he figured it was because of the lack of use. It wasn't good for her career, and as the thought entered his head he felt another spasm of guilt.

What was he supposed to say? Right after Denny had retired to his cottage, Mark had stormed his way to Lanna's door without even planning what to do or say once she opens up – mostly because he'd never thought she'd open up. But she did, and that was the problem, and it was his fault for being so persistent.

"Uh…" He rubbed the back of his neck, hoping it would help him think.

Lanna gave him a withering look and made to shut the door in his face, but he had anticipated the move beforehand: he managed to wedge his foot between the door and the door frame, effectively preventing its closure.

"Wait." He winced, because his foot was still stuck in its position and it was painful. He'd had worse, but it doesn't take away the fact that it still hurt.

"_What?_" she hissed, obviously annoyed. Not that he blamed her, though – if he was in her place right now, he'd be pretty pissed off, too, and he distantly questioned why she hadn't started yelling at him yet. Maybe she was too kind for that.

He stared at her to stall for time, noting the way her eyes narrowed by the second. They were brown, with reddish-orange specks in them when the light shined on them at exactly the right tilt – she had beautiful eyes, but he supposed they would be even more beautiful if there were no dark circles under them or if she wasn't glaring daggers at him.

By now, her lips had worked themselves into a taut, thin line, and the one by one, the warning bells in Mark's head went off, the frantic clanging and echoing acknowledged only by himself.

No more stalling. No more fooling around. He came here to talk, and that was what he intended to do.

He gulped.

_Here goes nothing…_

..

His eyes felt like they had sand in them.

Sand, dust, dirt, gravel – browns and greys and muddy reds of every shade that blended seamlessly to the colorblind eye; he opened them to find out that he had overslept (the clock said it was ten in the morning) yet he still felt exhausted.

His mind was to blame: it wouldn't let him take his forty winks, what with all the thinking it did. It was always thinking about things he didn't want to think of, and when he wanted to think about things he _did_ want to think of, it would stop working.

_My own brain hates me. Yay._

All night long, snippets of his previous conversations with Chelsea, Denny, and Lanna swam up to the surface of his consciousness, making the gears inside his head turn harder than they already did, which was not a good thing.

_Sleep deprivation is never a good thing._

He sat up abruptly, and immediately regretted the act – his head throbbed and the room seemed to sway before him so he shut his eyes and rubbed them vigorously, only stopping when he realized he could see multi-colored patterns beneath his lids. He remembered being so amused by them as a child – but then again, who wouldn't be amused by the thought of seeing your very own imaginary stars when you close your eyes?

He sat still for ten minutes, staring blankly at the wall on the opposite side of the room, absentmindedly playing with the edge of his blanket. He wanted to lie back down and sleep the day away, but the sudden knocking on his door made it clear that he wasn't about to have his way today.

He yawned and ruffled his hair, getting off the bed after stretching a bit and walking towards the door. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the wall mirror, and he didn't have to look again to know that he looked horrible: he had dark circles under his eyes, not unlike the ones Lanna had sported last night, and his hair was awfully tousled (he bet it was because of the ruffling he'd done), but he managed to comfort himself with the fact that he was at least presentable – that is, if a rumpled white shirt and a pair of old sweatpants could be considered presentable.

The knocking grew louder. "Mark? Are you awake?"

The voice belonged to a woman, but he didn't fully recognize it, either because of the door between them or of the fact that his brain was currently holding a grudge against him.

"Coming," he called back, even though he was only a foot away from the door. He reached out, turned the knob, and opened it to instantly regret not making himself more presentable.

"Hello, Mark," Chelsea said, her eyes glued to his face. "Um, sorry for waking you up."

He was sure she found him a ridiculous sight, with his eye bags and messy hair and bleary eyes and creased clothes, but he decided not to care about that… yet. He was still too groggy for that.

"I-it's okay," he managed to say, stifling a yawn, silently apologizing to his brain for whatever offense he had done – he can't afford to have his own mind hate him right now.

_Great. I'm apologizing to my own brain. And I thought Vaughn has issues._

"Not a morning person, are we?" She smiled slightly, but the expression was quickly replaced by that of apprehension. "Listen, Mark… I have a favor to ask of you."

A favor? For Chelsea? Mark grinned inwardly. She didn't even have to ask – he'd probably help her of his own accord if she didn't ask him.

"Shoot."

"Um…" She twirled dark strands of hair around a slender finger, unaware of how adorable she looked to Mark as she did so. "It's about the farm."

Mark nodded, silently prodding her to continue. He wasn't very eager to talk at the moment, seeing as he's just woken up – he hasn't even brushed his teeth yet, and he wasn't about to let her realize that.

"I think I bit off more than I can chew." She laughed nervously, shuffling her feet. "Um, I think you'd understand better if you see for yourself."

Help with the farm, huh? He knew he'd be glad to work again – his bones felt rusty from the lack of activity, and he'd missed farming so dearly. Besides, this was Chelsea asking him for help. It's not every day she comes to him for aid.

He nodded.

"Give me ten minutes."

_…_

_©2008 Marvelous Entertainment Inc. All rights reserved._

_Harvest Moon__® and __© 1998-2009 Natsume Inc._

…


	6. life and its injustice

**Chapter 6**

_Life and its Injustice_

..

_._

People do horrible things every now and then – like maybe stealing an apple from a fruit stand, or wrecking a brand-new video game they just borrowed, or getting involved in an all-out fist fight, or wearing green shoes with violet socks. Or maybe murdering someone, except no one kills another person every now and then just because they feel like it.

And most of the time, life punishes them for it.

Mark tried and tried and tried to figure out what Chelsea might have done that was horribly wrong and worthy of life's righteous punishment, but he honestly couldn't come up with anything. He couldn't imagine her stealing an apple from a fruit stand or getting involved in a fist fight. He, on the other hand, was a different case, but he was certain he's never done anything as horrible as wearing green shoes with violet socks. Sure, tackling his best friend to the ground wasn't nice, and lying about his feelings wasn't exactly right, and indulging on hot milk was sordid, but none of them were as bad as the sight of jade against mauve.

He sighed to himself. Life was simply unfair sometimes.

Green eyes scanned the farm once more, and it didn't do much to ease his apprehension. The field was a wreck: summer crops were strewn about here and there, a few of them unscathed, the others mutilated beyond any hope of selling. Bits of wood and stray branches and all kinds of debris dotted the entire field, and the roofs were covered with a light layer of leaves and dust and a heavy dose of twigs like a maniac's twisted concept of decoration. Rocks and boulders of every size littered the place as if daring him to try and break them – he could see a particularly huge one at the far side of the field – and the crops that weren't destroyed were laden with produce, glinting in the late morning sun and ready to be harvested. The soil was no longer damp from the onslaught, and a few stubborn weeds had sprouted overnight.

His line of sight strayed to the barn and saw, to his dismay, that the roof had been partially torn off and was in need of immediate repair, lest they endanger the animals' safety.

This, he decided, was only half of what a powerful summer hurricane is capable of. Chelsea was lucky, if he viewed it from the optimistic side of the fence: at least she and her animals weren't hurt. He couldn't say the same thing about her crops, though. Viewed from the pessimistic side, he couldn't help but feel sorry for her – she didn't deserve this at all – and himself – he _might_ have deserved it, but fixing this mess wasn't his responsibility. Well, it's true that he couldn't exactly complain because he'd help her with it even if she didn't ask him, but that's beside the point.

It didn't help that the sun seemed to be in a dreadful mood and decided to vent its wrath upon them: Mark couldn't remember a summer day in his life that was as stifling as this one, and already he felt beads of sweat glide smoothly down his back without even doing anything yet. The air was dry and dismal, and he idly wondered the probability of the entire universe conspiring against them – which, considering the way their day began, was probably a little more than ninety-nine percent.

Don't get him wrong, though – he had nothing against the universe, nothing against summer, nothing against farming, maybe a little bit against hurricanes, but this…

_Dear Goddess, what did we ever do to deserve this?_

Next to him, he felt Chelsea shift slightly – he figured maybe his face reflected the trepidation he felt, so he tried to mold his expression to that of calm neutrality, but he was sure he only succeeded in looking constipated.

"You said you bit off more than you can chew," he began, trying not to sound unenthusiastic.

"I did." She sighed a little, shooting him a curious glance.

"This isn't your fault." He shoved his hands in his pockets and turned his face skyward. There wasn't a cloud in the sky, and all he saw was a vast expanse of clear blue. "How long did the hurricane last? I wasn't aware of it at all."

"It began at around… let's see." Chelsea crossed her arms and frowned thoughtfully. "One a.m., I think, and ended at around six."

"So I simply slept through it."

"You look like you hadn't slept at all."

"I _feel_ like I hadn't slept at all," he said, stifling a yawn induced by talking about sleep. "Actually, I don't think I did. But enough about that. We'd better start working."

"You're right." She dropped her rucksack on the ground and pulled out a watering can. "Um, could you please clear the field first? I'm going to water my crops."

"Sure," he said, walking over to her rucksack and gesturing to it. "Mind if I borrow your hammer?"

"Not at all. Feel free to use anything you need."

He rummaged inside her bag for a full minute – only Goddess knows why she had so many random stuff in there, like a handful of mushrooms and a few wilting weeds – before finally grasping the smooth, cold head of the hammer and pulling it out.

"We'd have to fix your barn's roof after this," he called to her over his shoulder as he made his way to the most cluttered part of the field.

He barely heard Chelsea's distant shout of "Roger!" as he idly kicked a medium-sized rock. He looked around the frenzied ranch once more, and felt his heart sink down to somewhere around his knees. Cleaning up would take all afternoon.

_Oh, well. At least it's for Chelsea._

..

People do nice things every now and then – like maybe nursing an injured puppy, or giving a sad friend a hug, or helping an elderly person cross the street, or wearing a shirt that says, 'If you think I'm cute, wait 'till you see my mom.'

And usually, life rewards them for it.

Mark was fairly certain that helping Chelsea with her farm work counted as a nice deed – considering how he did most of the work – so he was currently waiting for life's righteous reward. He didn't expect anything fancy, like a farm of his own or a blue feather from Chelsea (although if life decides to give him that, he wouldn't complain), but something as simple as a glass of cold water and a good night's sleep would do.

He was awfully tired: his clothes were clinging to him uncomfortably and his arms were sore and his back was screaming its creaky protest. He felt perfectly content to remain lying on his back beside the enormous boulder he had eyed this morning – he'd planned to save it for last, but he realized that he simply couldn't summon the energy to get up and swing Chelsea's impossibly heavy hammer one more time. He'd managed to fix the barn's roof, break the smaller rocks, gather the butchered crops, chop the branches and tree stumps (how on earth tree stumps managed to magically appear during the hurricane, he didn't want to know) and completely clear up the farm while Chelsea took care of the weeds, the animals, and her few remaining crops.

It was physically draining, but the huge smile on Chelsea's face was worth it. He'd break stones and fix roofs over and over if it means he'd get to see that smile again.

…and see it he did. Her feet beside his head, Chelsea bent over him, her hair cascading over her face as she smiled that smile that inevitably made him smile as well.

"My couch may not be very comfortable, but it's better than my field," she chided, offering him a hand.

"But I'm too tired to get up," he muttered, trying not to sound whiny.

"That's why I'm taking you to my house."

He involuntarily stood upright, which wasn't a very wise decision since it made his head buzz. He knew there wasn't any kind of implication in her invitation, but his mind was more than happy to supply it. With healthy amounts.

"Y-your house?" he asked, mentally kicking himself for stuttering – he thought he was over it, but no, it just had to rear its spluttering head at the worst possible times.

"Oh, don't act so flustered, you." She grinned, poking his shoulder. "It's not like we're gonna do anything besides rest…"

She paused, then added, "…unless, you have something else planned for us." Her smile grew, bordering on a teasing smirk, and Mark noticed the sudden glint of amusement in her eyes.

He felt his whole face heat up, and both his tongue and brain suddenly became uncooperative – neither were able to come up with a proper sentence.

"Wha – but – I – you – we –"

Chelsea cut him off with a loud laugh that echoed all throughout the farm. He guessed he would've felt like laughing as well if he wasn't so flustered. Why on earth did she have to tease him like that, anyway?

"It was a joke, Mark," she said, wiping the corner of her eyes.

"Of course," he said in an attempt to appear calm. "I knew that. It was pretty obvious."

"That's because it was a joke."

"Of course. I knew that," he replied, scarcely paying attention to what he was saying; he was too busy feeling like jumping off the peak of Mother's Hill, but he had to travel to Mineral Town to do so and he didn't feel like travelling at the moment. "It was pretty obvious."

She only chuckled in response, and it was a second too late when he realized he just said the exact same thing less than thirty seconds ago.

He kicked himself mentally (he would've done it physically hadn't Chelsea been there) for being so easily flustered and acting like an echo chamber – _he_ was supposed to be doing that to _her_, not the other way round.

_Oh, life, you really are so unfair sometimes._

_…_

_©2008 Marvelous Entertainment Inc. All rights reserved._

_Harvest Moon__® and __© 1998-2009 Natsume Inc._

…


	7. male bonding, part two

**Chapter 7**

_Male Bonding, Part Two_

..

.

The last of the sun's dying rays had long been swallowed by the night, and the silver moon was climbing its way up to the sky from the horizon. Overhead fans buzzed and hummed as they whirled round and round, disturbing the particles of dust that hung suspended in the air. The strong glow of the neon sign outside softly painted the window sills a soft concoction of bright oranges, greens, and blues attenuated by the white of the moonlight, while the fluorescent light fixtures inside exuded an intense glare that burned into one's eyes when stared at for too long.

The village had celebrated the Fishing Festival earlier that day, and the three men seated at a table in Nick's Diner had decided to hold an "after-festival feast," as they call it.

"I'm really proud of you, Mark."

Mark carefully chewed the curry rice in his mouth and frowned quizzically at his curly-haired friend, wondering what on earth could have made Denny so cheerful. He'd expected the guy to be annoyed at him, since he'd overslept and completely missed the Festival altogether (and wasted all the efforts of foraging for worms), but the Denny in front of him at the moment was anything but angry.

"Why?" came the blond's stiff reply, half-guarded, half-suspecting.

"Because," Denny replied in between mouthfuls of salad, "you exceeded my expectations."

Mark's frown only deepened. He exceeded Denny's expectations? Denny had bugged him to death about entering the Festival – telling him to spend the rest of his life reading Shakespeare, calling him all kinds of emasculating adjectives from the dictionary, and ultimately insulting his masculinity (which actually worked) – and he'd missed it entirely, thanks to the ingrained persistence to fulfill his more important duties, or in other words, Chelsea.

How exactly did he even meet, let alone exceed, Denny's expectations?

"Cut to the chase, _Curly_," snapped a silver-haired man irritably, gently stirring his porridge with a spoon.

"All right, fine, _Violet,_" Denny replied, throwing his hands up in front of him. "Violet" narrowed his eyes dangerously at the fisherman, apparently not liking the not-so-manly nickname he was newly christened with. Mark had laughed when Denny first mentioned the moniker – it seemed that it was a direct reference to Vaughn's eyes – but immediately quieted when Vaughn's deathly _violet_ glare would have had made a thrice-dead man out of him (with amputated limbs) if looks could kill.

"…well?" the blond asked tentatively, curious as to what the other two knew that he didn't.

"We placed bets on you," Denny replied casually, grinning at his blond friend.

"You… placed bets on me?"

"Short answer: yes," the fisherman quipped, his grin growing slightly wider. "Long answer: yeeeeeeeeesss."

A funny coughing sound erupted from Vaughn, and Denny laughed outwardly at his own joke, although it wasn't that funny to begin with. Mark, however, was too confused to find anything remotely funny. Hell, Gannon could barge in wearing a tight pink tutu with fairy wings while singing _Material Girl_ and he still wouldn't find the urge to laugh. Okay, maybe he would, but just a little – if Gannon did barge in donning said outfit while singing said song, all three men, and Nick behind the counter, would be too mentally scarred for life to even consider laughing. In fact, just thinking about it was starting to scar him mentally.

The blond patiently waited for the two to stop laughing – or, in Vaughn's case, coughing weirdly – and start explaining what they meant.

"Well, it's simple, really," Denny stated, gesturing with his fork. "I had wagered that you won't be entering anything, and Violet here had bet that you would be entering something."

"Stop calling me that," Vaughn spat irritably.

"I will," said the fisherman, stabbing his salad with so much gusto that had Mark thanking the Goddess he wasn't born a healthy head of lettuce, "when the cows come home."

The cowboy sighed exasperatedly and directed his irate glare at Mark. "If _you_ had entered a fish, _any _kind of fish – hell, _anything_ at all, I wouldn't have to pay _him_" – he jabbed a finger at Denny – " anything."

"I was planning to, okay? I just overslept," the blond replied, somewhat defensively. "Besides, when people bet on something, it means they'll accept either winning or losing."

"You tell him, Mark!"

"And you," he snapped, rounding on Denny, "how can you bet on me not entering anything? Some best friend you are."

"Heh," shrugged the latter, "that's how I knew you'd fail. I know you too much, bro."

The blond, who wasn't able to find a decent reply, simply nodded and spooned a mouthful of curry rice into his mouth. He didn't exactly appreciate the fact that his two friends made a gambling game out of him, but he couldn't exactly be angry at them, either – it wasn't anything serious, anyway. So far, his feelings about the bet were neutral at best.

"So, Blondie," Denny said, pointedly ignoring Mark's wince at his nickname. "Not that I'm not glad for it or anything, but just why did you decide to oversleep on the day of my beloved festival, hm?"

"Look, I didn't mean to oversleep," said the blond. "I was just tired, so… yeah."

"Tired? How could you be tired, when you usually don't do anything?"

Mark paused momentarily. He'd forgotten that both Denny and Vaughn weren't aware of his activities the previous day. Come to think of it, saw neither hide nor hair of any of them yesterday. Should he tell them, or…?

"He helped Chelsea with her farm," Vaughn answered for him. "Took the brunt of the hurricane, I think."

The blond gaped, and the silver-haired man smirked.

"That's what I heard," shrugged the cowboy, answering Mark's unspoken question.

"I can't believe you're hiding secrets from me, Mark," Denny said in a mock-wounded voice, shaking his head in feigned hurt. "I thought you were my best friend."

"I _meant_ to tell you," the blond muttered, taking a sip of milk – he wasn't going to drink a lot of the stuff, since it makes him sleepy and sleepiness was the last thing he wanted at the time. "I really did, but I didn't have the time."

"Oh, sure, but you always have time for –"

"Hello."

Mark looked up and saw Will standing beside their table, hands behind him in a manner that Mark could only describe as regal.

"Hi, Will," the rancher greeted.

Vaughn nodded his acknowledgement.

"Hey there, Terry," said Denny, chuckling when Will shot him a dark look. Will used to reprimand the fisherman for calling him Terry all the time, but his warnings always fell on deaf ears so he eventually gave up. "Come on and sit with us. You know you want to."

The blond did.

"So," Mark began, "what's up?"

"Nothing, actually," Will said, slightly shrugging his shoulders. "I was just taking my nightly stroll and saw – ah, Vaughn!"

The cowboy looked up from his porridge, silver eyebrows vaguely raised.

"Today is Saturday, is it not?" The blond turned to his companions, who nodded in confirmation. "I do not mean to be rude, but why are you here?"

"Oh, you won't believe the answer when you hear it," said Denny, paying no heed to the indignant grunt from Vaughn. "It's… unbelievable. Isn't it, Mark? "

"Yeah, it really is," Mark affirmed, although he actually had no idea what Denny was talking about.

From his peripheral vision, Mark saw Vaughn frown thoughtfully, his curiosity apparently piqued. He would have felt sorry for the guy if he wasn't too curious himself – truth be told, he hadn't even noticed Vaughn staying at the Islands more than usual until Will pointed it out.

"What is unbelievable?" Will asked, slightly leaning forward to Denny.

"Simple," replied the fisherman, making eye contact with each of the males before adding, "Vaughn stays here more often because he wants to get closer to Natalie."

"_What?" _cried three voices in unison; Nick glanced at them from behind the counter and said, "Not so loud, please."

"What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?" Vaughn angrily hissed at the amused Denny, his face contorting itself into an expression that would have Mark running away for the rest of his life if he somehow becomes unlucky enough to encounter it at a dark alley.

"Aw, come on. It's not like Terry's gonna blab it to everyone. Right, Terry?"

"I must admit, I am confused," the blond said slowly. "Mark, are you not the one pining for Natalie?"

Mark shrugged, grinning, "You shouldn't listen to rumors, Will."

The latter nodded slowly; he seemed to be carefully dissecting the new information with so much attention that had Mark thanking the Goddess he wasn't born a juicy gossip.

_Wait, what's with all the illogical thinking today?_

Will spoke up just as Mark firmly decided that his illogical thoughts weren't his fault, but the curry rice's – he figured it might be contaminated by some microscopic slugs from Neptune and that the critters were currently invading his brain, thus becoming responsible for any of his thoughts and actions, whether logical or illogical. His theory seemed so much more plausible than the fact that he needed more sleep, since he had already overslept this morning and that was the end of that.

He made a mental note to talk to Nick about where he gets his ingredients some time later.

"That is a clever plan."

It was Denny's turn to be curious as he asked, "What is?"

"Mark pretended to like Natalie so that Vaughn's feelings would remain secret. That was very noble of you, Mark."

With blank faces, Mark, Vaughn, and Denny awkwardly looked at each other, silently communicating about Will's theory.

"Uh, sure," said Denny nonchalantly, brandishing his fork and spraying the others with bits of cabbage and droplets of extra-virgin olive oil. "Let's go with that."

"What do you mean by –"

"Hey there."

The four men looked up to see Pierre standing beside their table, hands behind him and grinning brightly.

"Good evening, Pierre," Will greeted, pulling a chair from the nearby table and offering it to the newcomer. "Come and sit with us."

"You know you want to," Denny added, beginning to attack his grilled fish.

"What's up?" Mark asked for the second time that evening.

"Oh, nothing," the purple-clad gourmet replied, seating himself on the chair Will had offered. "I just went out for a walk and – oh, Vaughn! It's Saturday today, isn't it?"

Mark had managed to avoid snickering just in time for Vaughn to scowl fiercely at the now-laughing Denny, brandishing his fork with so much enthusiasm that showered the other four with bits of grilled fish. The blond rancher reckoned all of them, with the exception of Denny, would be covered in Nick's delectable cooking by the time they get home.

Pierre faltered, his gaze flitting from Denny to Vaughn to Mark to Will to Denny to Vaughn to Mark to Will to Nick, who was sitting behind the counter playing chess with himself.

Mark wanted to tell Pierre what was so funny, since neither Denny nor Vaughn was in the right state to do so, but he had stuffed his fist in his mouth to keep himself from laughing and he knew that if he removed it, he wouldn't be able to control his laughter. He didn't know whether Denny was utterly fearless or just plain trusting, but no one laughs at Vaughn and gets away with it.

"They are laughing because I have asked the exact same question lately," Will replied for the others.

"Oh," said the third blond in the group, perhaps wondering what was so funny with an innocent question being asked twice. "So… why _is_ Vaughn here?"

"Vaughn has been staying in the Islands more often than he used to," Will tried to ignore the deathly violet glare Vaughn was sending in his direction, "for the reason that he wants to capture Natalie's heart."

"Oh, jeez, Terry," Denny panted, wiping the tears from the corner of his eyes. "Why must you always be such a pansy?"

The blond huffed and glared at Denny, "Excuse me, but the use of proper English words is not to be called something as misused as _pansy._"

"Wait a second," the gourmet piped up, his gaze flitting from Vaughn to Mark to Vaughn to Mark to Vaughn to Mark. "Mark, aren't you the one who fancies Natalie?"

"You shouldn't believe in rumors, Pierre." Mark grinned, amused at the fact that he had said almost the same thing less than half an hour ago. "Actually, I thought you liked her, too."

Vaughn immediately stopped scowling and sat up straighter, paying close attention to the thread of conversation with widened eyes. Mark smirked inwardly, and he was sure Denny was doing the same thing – that is, smirking inwardly, not sitting up straighter and paying close attention to the thread of conversation with widened eyes.

"Huh?" Pierre replied, a befuddled expression on his face. "What made you think that?"

"I was… under the impression, I guess. You two are pretty close, anyway."

"Yes, Natalie and I are good friends," Pierre said sagely, "but my heart only belongs to cooking."

"Hah! Heard that, Violet?" Denny cried out triumphantly, flourishing his fork for the third time and spewing morsels of tofu at his companions in the process. "You don't have a rival!"

"Violet?" reiterated Will.

"It's Denny's nickname for Vaughn," Mark answered.

"Why Violet?"

Denny then launched into an overly-dramatic and in-depth explanation of the girlishness of the color violet and the perfect opportunity it presented to drag Vaughn down a few steps from the ladder of manliness, gesticulating so fervently that his companions looked more like grilled fish and tofu salad sprinkled with extra-virgin olive oil and morsels of crisp lettuce and celery than four proper men listening to the ramblings of an enthusiastic, although a little annoying, friend.

Pierre expressed his surprise and irritation at Denny's scorn for the color violet and pointed out that it could be as manly as it could be feminine, giving Mark the idea that the gourmet was just defending said color because he was wearing it all over himself.

This made Will mention that the color of Pierre's clothes was actually purple, not violet; Vaughn countered by saying, "Purple, shcmurple. Same color, different names."

Mark gradually lost the thread of conversation as he grew more and more uninterested in what the guys were talking about; he let his gaze wander from the glare of the fluorescent light fixtures to the cheap paintings hanging on the walls to the pink cat flowers in a vase on the table opposite theirs, before finally drifting over to Nick behind the counter, who seemed to be losing to himself in a game of chess. Mark couldn't blame him, because he knew how difficult it could be to beat oneself: he remembered having played chess with himself when he was a child, and he had ended up cheating on himself, so he had decided to crown the non-cheating half of him the winner while the cheating half he had proclaimed the loser.

As an adult, he looked down at the act – it was childish and utterly pointless, which almost led him to think that maybe Nick had also ingested the microscopic Neptunian slugs.

He made another mental note, this time to tell Nick that it's childish to play a game of chess with oneself.

Denny's sudden choking on milk forcefully yanked Mark out of his Neptunian slug-infected thoughts, and he automatically reached out and patted the poor man's back in the hopes of soothing him.

"I – that's not – you –" spluttered the fisherman.

The other three laughed, and Mark wanted to join in the laughter but he had absolutely no idea what they were laughing about, and it would be utterly idiotic of him to laugh without knowing the reason behind the jollity. He didn't dare ask, either, for the fear of being accused of daydreaming again, which was true, but he really preferred to keep it to himself.

So he did the next best thing, which was to wait until someone speaks.

"Okay, I've decided," Denny announced in a stern tone. "Violet, or purple, or whatever the hell the color's name is, isn't feminine at all. It's now the manliest color in the world, and that's that."

The question, "Why the sudden change of heart?" formed itself at the tip of Mark's tongue, but before he could voice it out, Pierre answered it for him.

"I still can't believe you overlooked the fact that your favorite bandanna is violet," he said over his laughter, while beside him, Will giggled – yes, _giggled._

"Violet is now the manliest color in the world," huffed the fisherman, grinning despite himself. "It is if I say so."

"Out with it, Denny," Mark said so suddenly that the others quieted down at once and turned their attention to him. "What made you so happy today?"

"That was a non sequitur," Will mumbled, presumably to himself, but Mark heard it nonetheless and decided to ignore it.

"H-happy?" said Denny, a light blush creeping to his cheeks. "I don't know what you mean, bro."

"It's Lanna," Vaughn answered. "She's come around this morning, acting a_ little _bit nicer to Curly here."

Mark gulped. He'd forgotten all about his conversation with Lanna the night before last – did she tell Denny everything he'd told her?

"Ah, yes, about that." The fisherman rubbed the back of his neck embarrassedly. "I have you to thank, Mark. She said you talked some sense into her, and she apologized for worrying me like that. And she's been acting… nicer. Yeah, so… thanks."

"No problem," the blond replied, trying to mask the stiffness in his voice. Denny will kill him if he finds out what Mark had _accidentally_ told the woman – well, maybe he won't kill him, but he'll do something very close to that, and equally painful.

"Say, Mark, I've been meaning to ask…" Denny said, and Mark gulped again (he hoped to high heavens it wasn't audible). "Did you… did you tell Lanna my… uh, _our_ secret?"

Vaughn, Will, and Pierre all leaned in closer, their faces rapt with attention and curiosity.

"Ah, yeah, about that," Mark said, inching his way to the edge of his seat. "Uh, there are two answers to that."

Denny's face darkened slightly, and the blond knew he was in deep trouble – well, maybe not deep, but trouble nonetheless.

"Short answer: yes."

"_You told her?_" the fisherman asked so vehemently that Mark jumped out of his chair and stepped backwards, towards the door. Denny stood up as well, the expression on his face making the blond take another step backwards.

"Hey, don't you want to hear the long answer?"

"Ten seconds."

Mark reached behind him and found the doorknob; he quickly turned it to open the door. He took another step backwards, so that one of his feet was now outside.

"The long answer is…"

He ran away from the diner as fast as his legs took him, scarcely paying attention to the angry reprimands of the villagers as he yelled, at the top of his lungs, "_Yeeeeeeeeesss!_"

The diner's wooden door swung back and forth on its hinges as the fisherman bolted after the farmer, leaving the three men sitting at the table gaping at the spot where the duo stood. They were too shocked to say anything, and too uncaring to try and go after the two – they were sure Denny wouldn't kill Mark. Maybe he'd do something very close to killing, and equally painful, but as long as it wasn't lethal, they weren't worried.

A weird sound emanated from Vaughn, followed by another, and another, and within seconds he was fully laughing – no cough-like noises, no smirks, just plain laughter. His shoulders shook and his nose flared and his face reddened, but he continued laughing so hard that tears began to form at the corners of his eyes.

"Will?" Pierre said, glancing at the blond with a worried expression on his face.

"Yes, Pierre?"

"I think they broke him."

_…_

_©2008 Marvelous Entertainment Inc. All rights reserved._

_Harvest Moon__® and __© 1998-2009 Natsume Inc._

…

* * *

><p><em>an:_

_I'm not sure why I decided to write this chapter, but there are seven things I'm sure of._

_1. I like poking fun at Mark._

_2. I like poking fun at Vaughn._

_3. I like poking fun at anybody._

_4. I like shipping outside the box. *insert sudden foreboding feeling here*_

_5. I like pies._

_6. I like Logan Lerman._

_7. I like reviews._

_There's an eighth unnecessary thing I'm unnecessarily sure of, and it's this: I like writing unnecessary author's notes at the end of every unnecessary chapter. I'm not sure why, though._


	8. a letter to chelsea

**Chapter 8**

_A Letter to Chelsea_

..

.

Like a terribly indecisive and appallingly irresolute fruit fly, the pen's nib hovered tentatively over the pristine white sheet of paper, sometimes turning this way, sometimes turning that way, sometimes tracing invisible circles in the air, sometimes clumsily performing an idle figure-of-eight dance, but never actually leaving a single mark of ink on the sheet. Maybe the pen just ran out of ink, or maybe the paper was just not meant to be written on, or maybe the ink was actually invisible. However, it is so much more plausible to think that the hand holding the pen was connected to an arm that belongs to a terribly indecisive and appallingly irresolute person who just couldn't put his thoughts onto the paper.

"Remind me why I'm doing this."

"I've reminded you five times already, bro. Now get on with it."

Mark waved the pen irritably, scowling at his best friend who was currently grinning at him in obvious gloating.

Denny had coerced him into writing a letter to Chelsea as a compensation for his slip-up with Lanna. As if tackling him to the ground and chucking a shoe at him last night wasn't enough – Mark still had a tell-tale shoe-shaped bruise on his right shoulder to prove it.

"I don't know what to tell her, Den."

"Just invite her to watch the fireworks with you."

The blond chewed on the inside of his cheek, trying to hide the act from his friend to avoid being reprimanded for its unmanliness. How do people write invitations, anyway? He closed his eyes briefly and tried to imagine how the words would look like on paper.

_What: Fireworks Festival_

_When: Tomorrow at six_

_Where: Meadow Island_

_Why: No idea_

_(With) Who: Me…?_

No, that didn't sound right. He shook his head. Maybe being straight to point would be better.

_Chelsea, I'm inviting you to watch the fireworks with me._

He huffed and shook his head again, more fervently this time. What was it with words and their tendency to sound wrong when strung together?

"I don't know how to write it down."

"Oh, merciful heavens." The fisherman threw his hands up in exasperation. "You're hopeless."

He grudgingly left the comfort of Mark's bed and strode over to where the blond sat, bending over his shoulder to peek at the spotless sheet of paper that was so pristinely white, it somehow made Mark feel guilty about writing on it.

"You haven't even written anything yet!"

"I told you," Mark retorted, turning in his seat to face Denny, "I don't even know what to say, and how to say it!"

"I told you," Denny replied, imitating Mark, "just tell her you love her and invite her to the festival!"

Mark paused, turning the idea over in his head. Weren't love confessions supposed to be confessed personally? More importantly, was he even ready to tell her?

No, he definitely wasn't – just the thought of him confessing to _her_ was enough to turn his knees to jelly and his face to a tomato and his tongue to a knot and his heart to a swelling balloon and his brain to an echo chamber, echo chamber, echo chamber. Besides, Chelsea only thought of him as a friend. Nothing more, maybe even less.

"I… I can't do it."

"Mark," Denny said, all the humor in his voice suddenly evaporating, "if you don't seize this opportunity to invite her, someone else might beat you to it, and you'll end up watching the entire thing with Gannon."

Mark was about to say that he didn't mind watching them with Gannon, but the image of a bright pink tutu and the song _Material Girl_ suddenly flashed right before his eyes so he decided not to say it at all.

"I can invite her, all right," replied Mark, turning his gaze back to the paper – it seemed to be taunting him with its stark whiteness. "It's the confessing I can't do."

"Oh." The light and cheery undertones found their way back into Denny's voice. "Why didn't you just say so? Go on and invite her."

"Why can't I just do it in person?"

"Can you?" The tone was light and teasing, but there was an undercurrent of a challenge.

He shook his head ever-so-slightly, as if ashamed of admitting it.

"Here, let me help you."

Denny swiftly plucked the pen from Mark's grip before the latter could protest, and instantly began scribbling something down on the paper.

"My – beloved – Chelsea," he mumbled under his breath, verbalizing the words he wrote.

"NO!"

There was a scuffle for the possession of both the pen and the paper (which was not so pristine anymore), and within seconds, Mark had them triumphantly in his hands. He scrawled thickly over the words Denny had written until they were completely covered by the ink, so that no one would be able to read them.

"What do you think you're doing?" Denny cried in horror. "That's the only decent sheet we have!"

"It was your fault," Mark grumbled, although he knew Denny was right.

"Whatever."

With the writing utensil safely back in his ownership, Mark was about to write again when he stopped – _again._

"What now?" asked Denny, tapping his foot impatiently.

"Uh… how do I invite her?"

"Good Goddess, Mark." The fisherman ran his palm all over his face. "Just write down something like, 'Will you please watch the fireworks with me.'"

"No, not that," said the blond, earning himself an annoyed glare. "I mean, I can't write 'Dear Chelsea,' can I?"

"Why not? Most letters begin with that."

"But won't she think there's anything more to it?" Mark insisted. "I mean, 'dear' is sometimes used as an endearment…"

"You're thinking into it too much."

"Better safe than sorry," he shrugged. "What about, 'Hey, Chelsea'?"

"Too casual," Denny said dismissively. "Uh… 'To: Chelsea'?"

Mark snickered.

"Sounds like a gift tag."

"Just trying to help."

Mark sighed inwardly. Writing letters wasn't supposed to be this difficult, especially since it's just the salutation and he's already having problems with it. Ah, the hell with salutations. The blond hesitated for few more moments before finally writing down 'Chelsea,' in neat, firm strokes.

He turned to Denny, who nodded in approval.

"So… I just have to be straight to the point and invite her, right?"

"No!" cried Denny, making a lunge for the pen and the paper.

"Wha-"

"You don't just ask her like that! You've got to compliment her first!"

Mark resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Fine, fine. Now give me that."

"Nuh-uh. You're gonna do it wrong," Denny said, waving the piece of paper in Mark's face, the action only adding to its creases. "We're gonna take turns writing, and you can't erase what I write, and vice versa."

The blond knew that there was no way he would be able to talk Denny out of this, so he agreed.

If only he knew what he signed up for.

..

Chelsea stretched her arms above her, unknotting the tensions in the sore muscles of her back and shoulders. It was a long day for her; she had cut down most of her crops that wouldn't yield any more produce in time for the end of the season, chopped branches and smashed stones for building materials, and mined for gemstones afterwards.

What she looked forward to was a nice, long shower and a good night's sleep.

Trudging wearily back to her farm, her thoughts strayed to the Fireworks Festival tomorrow. Year after year, she had watched it with Gannon, since no one would invite her to watch with them and there was no one for her to invite – everyone always had a partner.

Oh, well, it wasn't like watching with Gannon was bad or anything.

She stepped into Ranch Island and smiled when she saw her farm. It had grown a lot in five years, and she was proud to be its owner. She almost had a heart attack when she saw the extent of the hurricane's damage, but thankfully, it had all been taken care of, thanks to Mark.

She haven't even thanked him properly yet. She would have to make it up to him sooner or later, and she couldn't help but look forward to it. It wasn't her fault that Mark was really nice and she'll be damned if she said that she didn't enjoy his company.

A small movement near her front door caught her attention, and upon closer inspection, her eyebrows furrowed.

It was a note nailed on the door. But from who?

She pulled it and saw that it was creased beyond belief, torn in many places, with ink smudges covering most of the text.

Something was scrawled at the very top, but it had been crossed out so vehemently that there was no way to read it. She scanned through the whole thing quickly, and realized that there were two distinct penmanship alternating between paragraphs – one had firm strokes, apparently taking great care to keep it neat, the other scrawled carelessly and heavily – as if the writer had decided to ask someone for help and they took turns writing.

At the bottom was written _Sincerely, Mark_ but there were three more words to the left of 'sincerely,' all of them crossed out but still legible: _Love, Yours, _and _From_.

She suppressed giggle. So this is from Mark, huh? She had a feeling that the second writer was Denny, and she knew her suspicions weren't entirely unfounded.

She started to read the note.

_Chelsea,_

_Your hair is like, so brown and shiny and stuff_

The statement ended so abruptly that she was puzzled at first, but laughed and blushed simultaneously when she read the second paragraph.

_Please ignore the sentence above. You see, I think you're really admirable, running the farm all by yourself. Very few women can do what you can, and it's a wonder to me how you smile even when you're tired and how determined you could be even when everything seems to against you._

That was Mark, she thought. Below it was another sentence by the one who scrawled heavily – Denny, she supposed.

_You know how horrible I am with words so Denny, the great genius he is, told me to write a letter instead. It was a great idea, coming from someone just as great, and I think someone as great as he is deserves a nice, large fish or_

She couldn't suppress her chuckle this time as she imagined Mark snatching the paper away from Denny. Not that she could blame the guy – subtlety obviously isn't Denny's middle name.

_A well-placed kick to the head. That would do him good. Anyway, tomorrow's the Fireworks Festival and I was wondering… will you watch it with me? You don't have to, of course, and I don't mind if you turn me down, but I'll be waiting at Meadow Island with the others._

Her eyes widened and she blushed against her will. Mark was inviting her to the Fireworks Festival. _Mark_ was inviting _her_ to the Fireworks Festival. Her, Chelsea, and not Natalie. Her heart fluttered at the thought. _What's happening to me?_

She found it mysterious, though. Why was Mark asking her and not Natalie? Was he planning to use Chelsea to get to the redhead? No, that can't be it. Mark wasn't like that.

Chelsea shifted her attention to the note. The next paragraph was, predictably, in Denny's handwriting.

_I would really really love it (really, you have no idea) if you say yes. I know that the previous paragraph says that I wouldn't mind if you turn me down, but I was lying. I wasn't myself when I wrote it, and Denny beat some sense into me. Man, you should've seen him beat me up! He used his super-duper-mega-ultra-hyper-powered punch and sent me flying fifty feet into the air!_

She laughed again. The word 'paragraph' was misspelled and crossed out and written again, only to be misspelled once more. Denny was really… weird. But in a good way. He always makes her laugh with his jokes and idiosyncrasies, and to her it was a wonder Lanna hasn't fallen for him yet.

_Again, please ignore the paragraph above. Er, that's all, I think._

Below it was the closing with the _Love, Yours, _and _From_ crossed out.

She chuckled to herself, feeling oddly light. She carefully folded the note and tucked it safely into her rucksack, stepping into the comfort of her home with a big, goofy grin on her face.

She won't be watching the fireworks with Gannon this year.

But first, the shower.

_…_

_©2008 Marvelous Entertainment Inc. All rights reserved._

_Harvest Moon__® and __© 1998-2009 Natsume Inc._

…

* * *

><p><em>an:_

_Guess who forgot to pay the bills and will have their internet connection down for Ignis knows how long? That's right, it's Vaughn. No, just kidding - it's me. Silly, silly me. Guess I won't be able to update for a while... Sorry 'bout that, guys.  
><em>

_And a gigantic thank you to every single one of you who have reviewed! You have no idea how happy your reviews make me._

CxG | Emo Cowboy | belladonna | dabomb | chocolate rules333 | Penny ToughGirl | GamerGurl2736 | lollipopdiego (Logan Lerman ftw!) | TsundereMe | Invader Cakez | hidden by the sun | HorseGirl784 | Kahtita

_I love you people!  
><em>


	9. fireworks in her eyes

**Chapter 9**

_Fireworks in Her Eyes_

..

.

To say that Mark was distressed would be an understatement.

The night wasn't going the way he wanted it to and he wasn't standing next to the person he wanted to stand next to and said person wasn't talking to _him_, but to the person he was standing next to.

_Goddess, help me._

Sure, he had almost jumped for joy when Chelsea had accepted his invitation to watch the fireworks with him, and they were now at Meadow Island with the others, waiting for the festival to begin, but he absolutely loathed the fact that whenever he turned his head to the left, what he saw instead of perfect white teeth and impossibly blue eyes was the angular profile of a crusty, muscle-bound carpenter.

The words, "Gannon, you cockblocker" kept echoing over and over in his head, which wasn't a good thing since the words "Gannon" and the first part of the word "cockblocker" together in a sentence was never pleasant – it was one of the very few things in this world that had the ability to scar a man beyond belief, both mentally and emotionally. He tried changing the words to "Gannon, you third wheeler" but it only succeeded partially, producing the sentences "Gannon, you third blocker" and "Gannon, you cock wheeler," both of which _may_ be marginally better or worse, depending on how Mark looked at them.

He sighed.

Gannon could have chosen to stand beside Mark, or beside Chelsea, but no, he decided it was a brilliant idea to stand _between_ them – neither Mark nor Chelsea would mind, he'd said. Mark thought Gannon was very, very wrong, but he daren't say it out loud, unless he wanted to have his neck broken and his ribs bruised.

To top it all off, his supposed-to-be date and the third party were currently engaged in an animated discussion about lumber ("Yeah, I got two pieces of lumber from a single branch!"), a topic which Mark found immensely boring and had little to say, so he simply kept quiet and let his eyes roam – the island was filled with young, happy couples, some of them so unexpected and somehow mismatched that they caught him off-guard.

Vaughn and Natalie stood away from the crowd, talking in low voices and stealing glances at each other when they thought no one was looking (Mark was). Once or twice he had caught Natalie's unembarrassed, openly curious stare directed at him, which gave him the idea that unlike her family, she hadn't at all bought the rumor that he himself had unintentionally started.

A few paces to his right were Denny and Lanna, the former with his hands crossed over his chest and the latter with her hands behind her. Denny had snickered loudly when he took a fleeting glance in Mark's direction and saw the obviously unwelcome third wheel who had managed to capture his date's undivided attention; the fisherman had flashed him a mocking thumbs-up that dented Mark's ego more than he could possibly imagine.

Will and Julia were to Chelsea's left; he noticed Julia's furious blushing even through the dark – no doubt from Will's flattering tongue (Mark somewhat envied Will for that, although he'd never admit it). Mark dimly remembered how Julia always asked him things about Will whenever he came to visit and how he'd thought nothing of it then. He grinned inwardly at his own blindness.

The next thing Mark saw made him rub his eyes and crane his neck for a better look. Was that really Elliot smiling shyly at an equally shy Sabrina…? Yes, it has to be – unless Elliot had an evil twin who had been kept undisclosed and locked away in some sort of secret basement until tonight. Elliot and Sabrina, eh? Seemed like a congratulations was in order.

Near the shy, bespectacled couple was Pierre, holding a plate of scrumptious-looking chocolate cake. Mark snorted. Pierre hadn't been kidding when he'd said his heart only belongs to cooking.

"It's starting!" Gannon's gruff voice arrested Mark's wandering attention.

Reluctantly, he tore his gaze from Pierre's cake and lifted his eyes to the night sky, painted a glowing cocktail of bright golds and dazzling silvers and glimmering blues and reds and greens, exploding with brilliant light and color at every _boom _and _bang,_ showering sparks that faded slowly as they gently drifted down, down, down to who knows where.

Amidst the ripple of excitement through the crowd and the "oooohh's" and "aaaahh's" of the captivated audience (particularly the women and Pierre), Mark kept glancing to his left, hoping to catch a glimpse of Chelsea – he wanted to see her smile as she watched in a trance, listen to her impressed gasps every time the artificial fire lit up the sky, and watch the colors dance in her eyes, like most love-struck people tended to do in mushy chick flicks – but Gannon was unbelievably broad, and he couldn't see her even if he bent forward at the waist (which would make him look utterly ridiculous, by the way), so he gave it up soon enough.

Fireworks Festival was supposed to be romantic. Mark had no inkling of what romance was and how to instigate it, but he was pretty sure it involved furtive glances and bashful grins and subtle hand-holding and – and – uh, romantic things like that, which were supposed to happen right now but were currently _not happening._

He decided he had to take action.

He scooted closer to Gannon and said loudly, over the din of the fireworks and the amazed gasps of the audience, "Hey, Gannon, it's pretty cold in my spot. Could we please trade places?"

"What?" The man turned to him, face scrunched in the effort to hear him.

"I said, could we please trade places?"

"Trade faces?"

"_NO! _Goddess, no!" Mark cried, flailing his arms wildly. Goodness, all the mental imagery a single innocent statement could evoke… "I said trade places!"

"Trade places?"

"Yes!"

"You want to live in my house?"

"No, I meant – no, never mind."

The fireworks display lasted fifteen minutes, give or take, but to Mark it seemed like three grueling hours with the side of Gannon's widely grinning face as an alternate view. If he had looked really closely and if he had really wanted to, he could have watched the fireworks dancing in Gannon's eyes, but people usually do that with the person they wanted to start a romantic relationship with, and Mark did _not_ want to start a romantic relationship with Gannon, thank you very much. Once the last of the booms had quieted down, the carpenter gave Mark a hard pat on the back and said, "Well, that was a nice show. See 'ya next year, laddie!" and left after saying goodbye to Chelsea.

Mark looked around and saw that the crowd was slowly dispersing – so the guys could escort the girls home, he supposed.

"Well, that was nice," Chelsea said, smiling sheepishly at him. "Sorry about Gannon, though. I guess he's just used to watching with me every year."

"It wasn't a problem," he replied untruthfully, shrugging his shoulders. Now here comes the hard part. "Um… should – I mean, shall – I mean may… may I… um, w-walk you home?"

"I'd love to!" she said, her smile widening and her eyes lighting up. "Come on, let's go!"

She grabbed his hand (he had the grace to blush at that) and almost dragged him to the dock in her excitement; he nearly tore his hair out in frustration when they got aboard Kirk's boat and saw his fellow passengers – he fervently prayed to the Goddess that somehow they were actually a deviant mirage conjured by his brain caused by the glare of the fireworks. There has to be some kind of optical explanation about that, something about retinas and blind spots and irises and corneas and spleens.

"Hey, Stranger, Chelsea," said the mirage who looked exactly like Denny, talked exactly like Denny, and acted exactly like Denny.

"Hi, guys," said the other mirage who looked exactly like Lanna, talked exactly like Lanna, and acted exactly like Lanna.

Okay, so maybe they weren't a mirage, but there was nothing wrong in hoping, right?

"Hello, Denny!" greeted Chelsea, the friendly soul she was. "Hello, Lanna!"

Mark nodded to the pair, and instantly dreaded what was to befall him next. Maybe he was just being paranoid, but whenever Denny smirks like that, it always ends up the same way: a big, fat dent to his ego.

"So…" said Denny, crossing his arms and tilting his head in feigned contemplation. "Did you guys enjoy the fireworks?"

"Yeah!" Mark said hurriedly, before his friend could add anything else. "I-it was very – uh – enjoyable!"

"So you really enjoyed watching with Gannon, huh?"

"I – he wasn't – I mean –" Mark mentally slapped himself three times before he managed to unfurl his tongue. "Chelsea talked to him."

"Do I detect a hint of jealousy there?" Denny asked slyly, while Lanna gave him a small, knowing, encouraging smile – bless her.

He had to admit, though, that he was slightly confused by Denny's question. Jealousy? What did he mean by that?

He turned to Chelsea for some clarification but was surprised when he saw her blushing lightly. He scrunched his eyebrows thoughtfully. Did he miss anything?

"What do you mean?" he asked. "I don't have romantic feelings for Gannon."

Everyone in the boat – including Kirk – burst into laughter, and while plenty of people had laughed at Mark's expense before – usually caused by the same person (a hint: starts with D, ends with Y, and rhymes with Denny) – it didn't mean that he was used to it. Well, maybe he was, but that didn't mean it was less embarrassing.

"…what…?"

"Never mind," Denny said with a grin, waving his hand as if to dismiss the topic. "We're here."

With a goodbye and a thank you to Kirk, the four of them hopped out of the boat and shared a moment of awkwardness – or, in other words, "spent a few seconds in silence, glancing at each other and waiting for someone to talk."

"We'll go ahead now, okay?" said Lanna, breaking the stillness – again, bless her. "Come on, Den."

Denny nodded to Chelsea, winked surreptitiously at Mark, and then turned to follow Lanna to Sprout Island.

"Let's go?" Chelsea asked.

"Yeah, let's."

Together, they trudged up to her farm in comfortable (he hoped) silence, him resenting Gannon's third wheeling but not enough to resent the carpenter himself, her thinking of who knows what – crops and animals, maybe. Or him (he hoped, or rather, wished).

They stopped right in front of her door, in which he and Denny had crudely nailed the note last night after much fussing about the efficiency of a nail compared to that of a sticky tape.

"Hey, Mark," Chelsea said, looking up at him with a big grin, "I haven't thanked you yet for helping me out with the farm."

"Huh?" he said, catching himself in mid-stare, while his inner voice sarcastically drawled, "How eloquent, bro."

"Yeah, I know I've already thanked you, but I wanted to do it properly," she continued, taking his question as that of puzzlement instead of his way of saying, "I'm sorry, I was too busy admiring you. Could you please say that again?"

She reached into her rucksack without looking at it – he guessed she knew how to feel her way around it – and said, "I have something for you."

"Wait, no – you don't have to, really," he protested, his cheeks heating up for some reason.

"You can't refuse this!" she said brightly, pulling her hand out of her rucksack impressively, opening her palm to show…

…a weed.

Chelsea stared at it with a horrified expression, her eyes wide and her mouth slightly open – she had obviously pulled it out by mistake – and he could feel his own eyes widen and his own jaw drop slightly.

_Goddess…_

"A… weed," he croaked weakly.

"I-I swear, Mark, this – this isn't –"

"Thank you!" he exclaimed, almost laughing with giddiness. Chelsea has given him a gift. _Chelsea _has given _him_ a gift! It was too good to be true! "I really like this!"

He snatched it away from her hands before she could say anything and carefully stuffed it into his pocket. He then turned to smile at Chelsea, who was staring at him as if he just said he wanted to take Regis out on a date.

"You… like it?" she asked doubtfully. "Seriously?"

"Seriously," he said seriously, as seriously as he could seriously manage.

She giggled a little, running a hand through her hair.

"Well… I'm glad you like it," she said. "I meant to give you a yellow wonderful, but… if you really want to keep that piece of weed…"

"I really like it," he said firmly, leaving no room for argument. Truth be told, he'd really like the yellow wonderful too, but he'd already accepted the weed and there was no way he was going to take another gift from Chelsea even if she offered it.

She stepped forward and, smiling, gave him a brief hug and said, "Goodnight, Mark."

And with that, she turned and stepped inside her home, leaving him stunned and blushing on her doorstep. He was very much aware that he was beginning to grin like an idiot, and he knew that if he had a mirror right now, he would see the lopsided, goofy grin he's always hated to see on his face. At the moment, though, he couldn't care less – it was dark, anyway – although he was also very aware that he was just a shade of red away from a ruptured spleen.

He walked out of her farm and made sure he was out of sight and earshot before yelling in elation, jumping for joy and punching the air victoriously.

_Hey, life, I guess you aren't so unfair after all._

_…_

_©2008 Marvelous Entertainment Inc. All rights reserved._

_Harvest Moon__® and __© 1998-2009 Natsume Inc._

…

* * *

><p><em>an:_

_I warned you about my fondness for unusual pairings, lol. Elliot and Sabrina... heavens help me, I think I might have been dropped on my head as a baby. Several times._


	10. misunderstandings

**Chapter 10**

_Misunderstandings_

..

.

It was frail, wilting and only slightly greenish, cracked and yellowing at the edges—he thought it was yellowing, but it may have been browning or tanning or chamoisee-ing or medium lavender magenta-ing for all he cared; he wasn't good with color names—with at least three different species of flies hovering around it which required a lot of swatting, missing, and cursing.

It was _beautiful._

Normally, he'd have thrown it out days ago, and he'd have thought of plenty of other adjectives to describe it that was anything but synonymous to "beautiful," but he was willing to make an exception this time, because this particular wilting weed was from someone dear to him, and that was enough to make it stunning in his eyes—although it didn't lessen the flies, but that was beside the point.

"Mark, are you even listening to me?"

"Huh?" Mark asked, wondering where the voice had come from … until he spotted Denny lounging on his bed, frowning at him. "Oh. Yeah, of course I was," he added hurriedly.

"Could've fooled me," Denny said. "What was the last word I said?"

"… 'said.' "

Denny snorted haughtily.

"Okay, I wasn't listening. Sorry."

"That's not why I'm upset."

Mark frowned thoughtfully. What else could he possibly have done to make Denny upset? Except, of course ….

"You were daydreaming—"

"I wasn't—"

"—about a weed. A _rotting weed_."

He exhaled sharply and raised his hands defensively in front of him.

"Look. First of all, I wasn't daydreaming." His meddling conscience obnoxiously yelled "LIAR!" the moment the words left his mouth, but he ignored it—daydreaming wasn't manly and he'd never admit doing it once (or twice) in a while … especially if it was about a weed. A _rotting_ _weed_. "Second, I'm sorry. Really. What were you talking about, anyway?"

"Lanna's birthday is tomorrow and I don't know what to get her." Denny, looking like a lost child, poked at Mark's bed sheets, right in the middle of an old brown coffee stain with faint streaks around it—he'd stupidly tried wiping it off but only had succeeded in spreading the coffee even more.

"Uh, fish?" suggested Mark.

"Nah, that'd be too predictable, wouldn't it?" Denny replied. "I've always given her fish on her birthdays until last year."

"How about flowers?" Mark tried again.

"Flowers grow everywhere. They're not that special, honestly."

"How about a birthday cake?"

"I don't know how to cook."

"Then why don't you just ask her what she'd like to receive?"

"Too tacky."

"What about her friends?"

Denny paused for a while, thoughtfully frowning at a cobweb on the corner of the ceiling—Mark reminded himself to do some cleaning sometime soon, which meant either next month or the month after that. Or the month after that.

"That's not a bad idea," said the fisherman, turning wide eyes to Mark. "You're a genius, Mark! You should go ask Sabrina or Natalie!"

The blond deadpanned. Did he hear that right?

"Whoa, wait, hold up," he said. "Why me?"

"Because it'd be too obvious if it were me!"

"Everyone knows you like her. Including her."

"Exactly."

As if "exactly" made sense. Mark considered for a while. "Why me?"

"Why not?" countered Denny.

"_Why_?"

"You honestly don't expect me to ask Vaughn, do you?" the fisherman spat, annoyed.

"You could ask Pierre or Will or Elliot—"

"They're all busy because they have _jobs_," Denny said, "unlike you. Well, except for Terry, but you know him …."

Mark was more than slightly annoyed. If Denny wanted to give Lanna something she'd love, then finding out her preferences should be Denny's responsibility, not Mark's. Besides, he'd really rather not talk to Lanna's friends because that would involve talking to Natalie and he'd really rather not talk to Natalie because he'd unintentionally involved her in a rumor he'd unintentionally started and that wasn't what he (or anyone else) would call "a good start."

Furthermore, he was afraid Sabrina might engage him in girl talk—specifically, the one about who was "dreamier" between Vaughn and Shea. He'd (accidentally) overheard the girls talking about that specific topic before—there had been two votes for Vaughn and six for Shea, and Mark had thought it was only just. He'd have voted for Shea too if he were asked … but that did _not_ mean he wanted to engage in girl talk, nor did he think Shea was "dreamy."

"Girls are hard to talk to," he said honestly.

"They're not going to eat you, you know," said Denny, who almost seemed like he was resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Mark stored the observation for a later date, thinking he might be able to exploit it in some way that would hurt his friend's ego.

"You don't understand. They're harder to read than … than …." Mark paused to think and search his brain for something that was hard to read, flailing his hands uselessly as he did so. "Than the Latin binary version of the Code of Hammurabi in hieroglyphs written backwards in red ink against a red background taped to the back of a tap dancer."

Denny stared at him and blinked once. Twice.

Thrice.

Then laughed.

"Wow, man, that was creative!" Denny slapped his thighs and clutched at his abdomen, his laughter rising an octave higher. "The backwards Latin hieroglyph of what taped to what?"

"That's not the point!" Mark cried, aggravated. "You're completely missing the point!"

"How can I not?" replied the fisherman, who was beginning to calm down. "Binary version of the Code of Hammurabi … really, bro, how do you think of these things?"

"I won't do it, and that's final." Mark crossed his arms and steeled himself for the persuasion that was to come.

He wasn't talking to Sabrina or Natalie—no way. No matter what happens, no matter what Denny says, no matter how much his ego gets bumped … there was no way he was going to change his mind.

No way in hell.

..

It was finally official: Mark was a pushover.

He gritted his teeth and shook his head. What the hell was he doing here? Why, why, _why_ did he have to agree to everything Denny said? He could have refused to do it. Scratch that, he _did_ refuse to do it, and plenty of times at that. He supposed it was simply a matter of will, and his friend, unfortunately, was really strong-willed. Hell, Vaughn was fickle compared to Denny.

He felt his fist tighten in annoyance with himself as he knocked on Taro's door, hoping Natalie was inside. He'd visited Sabrina earlier—he was lucky she was taking a walk outside, sparing him the imminent encounter with Regis—and she had suggested earrings made from pure orichalcum from the mines. Mark personally thought it was a very good idea, since most women loved jewelry and obtaining orichalcum wasn't really difficult. The price of having the ore fashioned into earrings, though, hurt one's pockets like … like … well, like something that hurts really badly.

"Wha—oh, hi, Mark."

The door had opened and he hadn't even noticed it. Drat.

"Hey, Natalie." He paused, wondering. Should he be blunt about it and finish it quickly or should he go through the usual pleasantries first? It might be a little rude to get to the business without asking her first how she's doing or apologizing for bothering her—ah, the hell with pleasantries. "What do you think would Lanna like for her birthday?"

"Lanna?" Natalie narrowed her eyes suspiciously and tilted her head to one side. "A homemade yam pudding, I guess."

Mark waited for her to say more, but when she didn't, he mumbled a hasty, "Okay, thanks so much" and turned on his heels. He wanted to get away from her as soon as possible, lest she start questioning him about that rumor he so desperately wanted to forget.

"Hey, wait!"

_Drat._

He hesitantly turned around and saw Natalie a few steps away from where he'd left her, looking at him again with those narrowed, scrutinizing eyes. Goddess, she was frightening in her own way. Pretty, sure, but insanely frightening.

"Yeah?"

"Lanna, huh? Is she your new _target_?" She drew invisible quotation marks in the air when she said "target."

"I-I don't know what you're talking about."

"First it's me, then it's Chelsea, then it's Lanna," she continued. "So, who's next? Sabrina? Julia? Lily? Got women all lined up for you to play with?"

"Wait, that's not—you got it all wrong—"

"What, you think women here could be your periodical trollop? You think we're that low?"

"Natalie—"

"Did you honestly think you could get a girl just because of a damn rumor?" She poked his chest angrily. "You think, just because you're a man, you could play with women's feelings?"

Oh, boy. Natalie was getting angrier by the second, and he didn't even know what to do. Hell, he wasn't even able to defend himself—what in the world did "trollop" even mean? And where was a dictionary when he needed one? He tried to speak and tell her she was wrong, but his tongue knotted itself and his hands suddenly became clammy. Tongue? Hands? What were those things? … oh, great. Now his brain was short-circuiting. How Vaughn even managed to put up with this woman, he _wanted_ to know. The knowledge might become handy at times.

"Why don't you defend yourself? Because it's all true. Is that it?"

"N-n-no, no, it's not—you got it all wrong, ma'am—" Ma'am? Seriously? Wow, he really was a pansy.

Natalie grabbed his collar and pulled him down so their eyes were level. He had half a mind to tell her she had beautiful eyes but he thought it would cost him a limb or two, so he bit his tongue.

"Listen here." Her voice was so low and chilly that it sent shivers up his spine. "If you try to play your stupid womanizing game one more time, I swear I'll cut your head off … and I don't mean the one sitting on your shoulders."

_Feisty._

He gulped audibly. The idea of getting castrated was terrifying, but nowhere near the woman threatening to do it. Goddess, why was this happening to him? And why was the world shaking? Good Ignis, it was an earthquake! Why wasn't anyone panicking? And why is Natalie simply glaring at him—oh, it wasn't an earthquake. It was his knees shaking.

"Let me explain, please," he whispered. "You got it all wrong, I swear."

She grunted and released him, her eyes looking murderous all the while.

He took a deep breath and began to talk.

He told her about everything—about how he'd always had feelings for Chelsea, how Denny and Chelsea had forced him to tell them who he was in love with and Natalie was the only one plausible because he couldn't admit he loved Chelsea, how Charlie and Eliza had overheard everything and spread the rumors around, how he couldn't take his statement back because he would have to confess why he'd lied and he didn't want Chelsea to know why, and how Denny had coerced him into asking them for ideas on the perfect gift for Lanna.

She listened patiently, nodding every now and then, and when he was done talking, she smiled widely.

"Sorry for thinking so lowly of you," she said, still grinning, "but you had it coming. Still, I'm sorry. I really am, Mark."

"It's fine. It was all my fault, anyway."

She cleared her throat and looked away embarrassedly.

"You've got another problem coming, and it's … kinda sorta my fault."

He frowned. Oh no, not again. Not another castration threat.

"Well, when I collared you," she said, "Chelsea came out her farm and saw us, and … well, you know how we might've looked like, and I think she might've been a little hurt, you know, because she ran right back home."

Oh no.

Oh no, Goddess, no. He'd gladly accept another threat of castration rather than face this. No, no.

Why did these things keep happening to him? And just when he thought they were starting to get along so well. His thoughts strayed to the rotting weed sitting delicately on his bedside table; he barely noticed Natalie apologize again and walk away.

Chelsea had the worst timing sometimes.

_…_

_©2008 Marvelous Entertainment Inc. All rights reserved._

_Harvest Moon__® and __© 1998-2009 Natsume Inc._

…

* * *

><p><em>an:_

_I got my internet back! Yay! Well, actually, I've had it back for a while now. Sorry I haven't been able to update; I've just been really really busy ... especially now that I got a job (finally). I don't think I'd be able to update as often as I'd like, but I swear I'll try. By the way, are you guys aware of the two-chapter Harvest Moon IoH manga released January 2007? I sure wasn't. The links are on my profile if you're interested. :D_


	11. a little help

**Chapter 11**

_A Little Help_

_.._

_._

Someone had told him once that a sincere compliment effectively breaks the ice—and if the ice doesn't break the first time, then compliment the person twice. And if that doesn't work, look for tell-tale signs of suspicious wires or batteries—your companion might actually be a highly-sophisticated robot for all you know. Either that, or a very, _very_ grumpy person…or Vaughn.

Mark would rather face a bizarre mash-up of flesh and machine straight from a Sci-Fi movie or a very grumpy, cranky, cantankerous old lady who owns twenty-four cats than the third option, but it wasn't like he had any choice at the moment.

He was debating on whether he should say "Your eyes are pretty" or "I think you're dreamier than Shea" or "You're really manly, you know," but he figured saying any of those would do the exact opposite of even remotely lightening the cowboy's seven-shades-darker-than-the-darkest-shade-of-black mood, added to the possibility of losing a tooth and sporting a (very manly) black-eye—and maybe a bonus broken nose if he tried to somehow incorporate a detailed comparison of Vaughn's looks with Shea's.

He waited for the man to say anything: to ask him what he wanted, or to greet him, or to even grunt in acknowledgement, but there was nothing. Vaughn simply stood glaring at him, framed on the doorway of Mirabelle's shop, looking disgruntled, ruffled, and exceedingly annoyed. Mark had actually expected the cold treatment from Vaughn—everybody did—but he'd also actually expected some kind of exception to the rule, since most people (and Mark) considered them friends…they _were_ friends, weren't they?

So now it's not acceptable for maybe-friends to come running to each other in times of need?

"It's two in the morning," Vaughn said gruffly, as if on cue.

Oh. He'd forgotten about that.

Well, no, not really. But hey, farmers usually woke up at four, and some farmers in Southeast Asia even got up as early as three in the morning. Mark himself often woke up between five in the morning and one in the afternoon—depending on whether he wanted to sleep in or had actually slept in during daylight and managed to wake up in the wee hours of the morning.

But none of that was the point.

The point was that Vaughn wasn't a farmer. He wasn't an early bird either, that much was obvious—his eyes were red-rimmed, puffy, and half-lidded; his hair was mussed up and had cowlicks on the sides and back; there was a crease mark on his right cheek from his pillow and there was a faint streak of dried drool at the corner of his mouth which had Mark straining to keep himself from snickering.

He probably failed doing so, because Vaughn's frown deepened ten-fold and his glare became so unbearably hostile that Mark could have sworn that it was cutting a gash on his neck.

"You've got to help me," Mark said, since he figured if he didn't say anything, they'd both probably remain staring at each other until sunrise, and judging from the intensity of the glower he was receiving, he would most likely be dead by then.

"No, I don't." Vaughn shifted his weight to another foot and leaned on the door jamb, his arms crossed.

"You don't understand!" wailed Mark, part of him wondering why he was still alive, the rest of him yelling at his mouth to shut up if he wanted to keep breathing. "You don't even know what happened, and it was your girlfriend's fault."

Vaughn smirked, to his infinite surprise.

"Yeah, I know. She told me what happened," Vaughn said through a yawn. He chuckled, then added, "Wish I'd seen that—worst timing in the world, ain't it?."

Well, yeah. Mark couldn't argue with something he so wholeheartedly agreed with—Chelsea _did_ have the worst sense of timing he had ever seen. First she'd caught him loitering on Link Island, then she'd walked in on him straddling Denny, then she'd caught him stupidly digging for worms using his bare hands, then she'd asked for his help exactly when he'd wanted to sleep in, and lastly (he hoped it really was the last), she'd caught him and Natalie doing…well, some talking that looked like something else entirely.

"Yeah, and it's not exactly my fault, you know," he grumbled.

"She was at the party earlier," the cowboy said, pertaining to Lanna's birthday party where he had desperately avoided Chelsea at all costs. "You could've talked to her then, but you didn't."

"I know—that's why I'm here. So…" he said hopefully, his fingers crossed behind his back, "does that mean you'll help me?"

All signs of good humor in Vaughn's face completely vanished, and within moments he was glowering again.

"Sure," the cowboy said so menacingly that Mark almost wished he'd said no. Thank Goddess he was wearing pajamas, so that kind of lessened the threat. But still…if there was one word Mark would use to describe Vaughn right now, it would be "terrifying." And "pajama-clad," which would technically make it two words but that wasn't the point.

Vaughn stepped closer faster than he could react, and suddenly he was dragged backwards by the scruff of his neck, and embarrassingly, all he could do was yelp like a blond-haired, green-eyed puppy, and an unmanly one at that. He tried resisting the pull by walking forward, and the result was one that was to be expected.

"Vaughn, wait! You're strangling me!" he yowled, flailing his arms uselessly.

"Good."

Half-stumbling, half-choking, he tried once more to free himself from the cowboy's grip, but for some reason, being woken up in the middle of the night was enough to give Vaughn some kind of inhuman strength, and Mark, red-faced and gasping for air, was dragged along helplessly.

If the blond was terrified before, now he was a breath away from staining his pants. And imagine his horror when he looked around him and noticed the direction Vaughn was pulling him—

"Wait! No!" he positively cried out, planting his feet firmly on the ground to try and stop Vaughn from dragging him any further, which, of course, he failed to do. "Stop! Don't! Please, _Violet_, stop!"

At the mention of his…uh, manly nickname, Vaughn simply laughed silently, which was the exact opposite of what Mark was trying to do. Okay, maybe trying to make Vaughn stop dragging him in the direction of Chelsea's farm might not be the exact opposite of Vaughn laughing quietly, but it was really hard to think of a proper analogy for anything when a deranged, sleep-deprived, anti-social, silver-haired cowboy effectively strangles you while leading you to imminent embarrassment. Oh, well. At least he tried.

"Chelsea!" Vaughn yelled suddenly. It took Mark full five seconds to completely comprehend that they finally reached their destination.

_Crap._

"Chelsea! Wake up!"

"Sssshh! Shut up! Shut up, Vaughn!" Mark hissed, still struggling with the man's grip on the scruff of his neck. "You'll wake her up!"

"Duh." Vaughn then proceeded to knock loudly on Chelsea's door, while Mark tried to grapple with the hand that prevented him from running away forever. "Chelsea! Open the door!"

"Be quiet!" cried the blond, desperate to shush Vaughn while keeping his voice low while trying to escape at the same time.

"Chelsea!" Vaughn yelled again, ignoring Mark completely.

"Stop it! She's tired and she needs to sleep!"

"Open the damn door, woman!"

"SHUT THE HELL UP!"

Both men paused as a light lit up inside the house and a muffled and slightly unintelligible "Coming!" resounded from behind the door. Mark gulped audibly and began stuttering.

"Why, thanks," said Vaughn, a corner of his mouth turned up in an annoying smirk. "You should've told me you wanted to be the one to wake her up."

"This—this—this isn't what I m-meant when—"

"When you said you needed help, I know," Vaughn said smugly. "This is for waking me up too damn early."

"Look. I'm sorry, okay?" Mark said hurriedly. "I knew I shouldn't have woken you up at this kind of hour, but—"

"Nope. Man up, will you?" Vaughn said, shaking him slightly. "You wanna talk to the girl, then talk to her."

"B-but not now! And not like this! Come on, please, let me g—"

It was too late. The door swung open with an ominous creak, and Chelsea poked her head out while sleepily rubbing her left eye. To be fair, Mark had to squint to see her properly, because it was still pretty dark and there wasn't any light in her farm except for the one in her house, which wasn't very bright to begin with.

"Vaughn? Mark?" she mumbled, her voice deeper than usual. "What's wrong?"

"Mark wants to talk to you," said Vaughn, completely oblivious to the fact that he was talking to Chelsea in his pajamas. "Here. Take him."

He shoved Mark into Chelsea, but fortunately for Mark, he managed to swerve and avoid colliding into her and ended up smacking his face on the wall instead—which, though more painful, was a lot better than running into Chelsea and having her pressed against him…oh. Damn. Mark kicked himself mentally four times and wished he could request a retake, and he vowed that next time, he wouldn't swerve to avoid her. Sadly, life allows no retakes.

"Mark," Chelsea said, "it's two in the morning. Can't it wait until, I don't know, sometime later?"

He laughed sheepishly and rubbed the back of his head, silently wondering where Vaughn had quickly evaporated to so he could do the same. "Ah, well, yeah," he said, completely aware that he really wasn't saying anything that actually meant something. "Actually, um—well, you know…"

Chelsea sighed deeply and pinched the bridge of her nose.

"You know what?" she asked, squinting up at him. "It's cold out here, and really dark, too. You should come in."

"B-b-but there's no need to, really," he said quickly. "It could wait until daylight. It's really not that important." Even as he stammered the words, his brain registered that their proximity allowed him to smell her hair. It smelled really nice—something floral, maybe.

"Come on," she insisted, tugging on his sleeve. "You've already woken me up, so now you've got to keep me company."

"But—ack!"

Chelsea somehow managed to pull him inside with almost no resistance at all, and the only explanation he could come up with was because he was still weak from his previous struggle with Vaughn.

"Wait here, okay?" she said, pointing to the couch. Mark could only nod dumbly and sit himself down. "I'll make coffee."

He fervently wished to the Goddess that this was all a bad, bad dream, but the feeling of being strangled and the sight of Chelsea in her chicken-print pajamas were all too real. What was he supposed to tell her? That there was nothing going on between him and Natalie? Truth be told, he really didn't have to tell her anything. She wasn't his girlfriend and she never asked anything about the "incident." It didn't concern her at all. So why was he so desperate to talk to her and tell her that Natalie was just a friend?

Oh, that's right. Because he's hopeless.

Chelsea walked in from the kitchen carrying two steaming mugs of coffee, the rich aroma wafting through the air.

"Hope you like your coffee sweet," she said, setting both mugs down on the coffee table. "I might've put in too much sugar, but it tastes nice to me."

"Thanks," he said, his voice wavering.

Goddess, this was it. He had to come up with some excuse—anything—that would explain his untimely visit. Trembling, he started praying quietly.

_Oh Goddess, Ignis, Sephia, Kappa, Mayor Hamilton, anyone…help me._

"So…" she prompted, watching him over the rim of her mug, "what is it that's so important that you had to come to Vaughn first before he had to drag you here?"

"Well…er, I wanted to…um, say something," he replied uncertainly. "Yeah, I wanted to say something."

"Go on."

"Well…um, you know, when…" Goddess, what on earth should he say? That he was stupid enough to actually act without thinking?

He glanced at her and saw that she was still waiting for him to finish talking—he couldn't keep stalling forever. Somehow, he had to say something. _Anything._

"I love you!" he blurted out without thinking.

He immediately gasped and covered his mouth with his free hand, wishing that he didn't actually say that out loud, or that Chelsea didn't hear it, or that it was just a hallucination caused by the coffee being too sweet. But when he looked at her and saw her staring at him with wide-eyed, mouth agape, he realized that he was a bigger idiot than he gave himself credit for.

_…_

_©2008 Marvelous Entertainment Inc. All rights reserved._

_Harvest Moon__® and __© 1998-2009 Natsume Inc._

…

* * *

><p><em>an:_

_Guess what? I'm still alive! *Stayin' alive, stayin' alive, ah, ha, ha, ha...*_

_Anyway. Sorry I've been so lousy when it comes to updating. Sorry. I'm trying, I swear...just not hard enough. lol_

_Thanks for reading! I really, truly appreciate it. :)  
><em>


	12. too sweet

**Chapter 12**

_Too Sweet_

_.._

_._

He almost lost his grip on the mug perched between his knees as his sweaty hands trembled and his heart hammered under her eyes' scrutiny. The air between them, filled with the fragrance of coffee and the flickering orange of the oil lamp, was saturated with sheer tension and, in his opinion, awkwardness. He wanted to glance at her face just to see her expression, but he couldn't even summon the courage to lift his eyes to her shoulders, so he simply kept staring into his mug and pretended she wasn't there and that he hadn't said anything.

She was going to reject him, and he was sure of it.

He knew he had been stupid. After this, they would certainly go back to the way they were before—mere strangers who knew each other's names; he, the lover who blushed and stuttered whenever he saw her, and she, the beloved who smiled and laughed and lived happily without the knowledge of his existence_._ He didn't want to, of course, but he honestly couldn't see how he could walk out of her house today and still be friends with her the next morning. He had been stupid and now he had to suffer the consequences.

"What did you say?" she asked, almost whispering the words.

"I…" He wanted so badly to turn back the time and prevent any of this from ever happening, but if the very worst was to happen, at least he had been friends with her, even if it ended too soon. "I said…I said the coffee was a bit too sweet, b-but it tastes nice," he said quickly, biting his tongue for saying something stupid he wasn't even planning to say.

"Mark, that doesn't even rhyme." He saw her shake her head in his peripheral vision as she chuckled lamely.

"I-it's true, though," he continued, unthinkingly spewing out words that may somehow—_somehow—_magically repair every single mistake he'd said, "the coffee tastes—"

"Stop it," she said, cutting him off. He finally found the courage to look at her face, and to his surprise, she didn't look angry. She wasn't even looking at him; her eyes were intently watching a wayward moth dancing around the lamp, unaware of its fate should it touch the deceptively beautiful flames. She looked tired and sleepy and confused and—and—and beautiful, with the dim, ethereal glow illuminating her face. Beautiful, as always.

"I'm sorry," he said, looking back down into his mug, willing himself to get lost in the swirling darkness of the coffee. There must be some way they could still be friends, and he was going to look for one. As for his feelings…well, they weren't important anymore. It didn't matter anymore whether he'd still have a chance to be with Chelsea or not; the only thing in his mind right now was to repair whatever damage his mouth had caused and still be able to talk to her and laugh with her and spend time with her as friends…as if he'd never walked into her farm at two in the morning and blurted out his feelings over steaming mugs of overly-sweet coffee.

"Why me?" The words were spoken softly, as if she almost didn't want him to hear. "There are other girls on the island—other girls who are prettier and nicer and smarter and…and generally better than me."

Mark almost laughed aloud at her question. Why her? Was she even serious?

"Why you?" he said, smiling slightly, his eyes focused on his drink, gliding a finger smoothly around the rim. "Where do I even start? You're beautiful. You're kind. You're friendly, hardworking, adventurous, stubborn, cheerful, strong-willed, and hard-headed. I could go on and on, but it might take a while."

"Mark—"

"You're always smiling, you know that?" For some reason, he couldn't stop talking. He knew he had to stop soon and he knew he might stutter badly, but he simply couldn't stop—hell, this woman had no idea how wonderful she was, and he had to let her know. "Even when you're tired, you're still smiling. And even when you're covered in mud or dirt or horse dung—" she giggled a little "—you're still smiling."

"But—" she tried to say, but he was on a roll. He was now staring straight into her eyes, meaning every single thing he said, not even consciously thinking up the words.

"Your hair's usually tangled and dry and your clothes soiled and rumpled but dammit, Chelsea, you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. You know when to handle things yourself and you know when to ask for help. You know when to be nice and you know when to be firm. You're…you're…" He gestured with his free hand, stumped for the exact word to summarize her. And then it hit him. "You're perfect."

He smiled at her for three seconds but immediately averted his gaze when he realized that everything he just said was enough to cause him embarrassment for the rest of his life. He'd told her she was beautiful—_twice_. He'd used all these textbook adjectives to describe her—the ones grade-schoolers would use to describe their teacher. Hell, he'd as good as told her she looked good covered in horse dung!

But at least he wasn't complimenting her—no, he was just describing her. And he had been accurate, as far as he was concerned.

He glanced at her once more, mainly to forget about his own embarrassment. She was covering her mouth with one hand, but even in the lamplight, he knew she was blushing hard. And her eyes…oh Goddess, was she crying? Goddess, no, please, don't let her cry, for the love of humanity and all things bright and beautiful. Maybe she just yawned. Maybe the lamp was too dim and it irritated her eyes. Or maybe she finally realized that the coffee was just too sweet.

"Hey, wait, don't cry," he said worriedly, setting his mug down on the table. "I'm—I'm sorry if I somehow offended you or something…"

Maybe she was offended by the generic adjectives he'd used. Goodness, he was starting to consider the odds of him having a better life had he been born without a tongue.

"Do you—" she started, but was interrupted by a hiccup. "Do you really mean that?"

"I do. I swear to Goddess, Chelsea, I meant every single word I said," he replied, his hands awkwardly hovering above her shoulders, unsure whether he should comfort her or if that would be considered inappropriate—well, she _was _in her chicken-print pajamas, for one thing. But more importantly, he had to make her stop crying somehow. But even more importantly, why was she crying?

"I'm sorry," she said, laughing weakly. "I don't meant to cry. It's just that…" She roughly wiped her tears with the back of her hand, sniffing loudly. "It's just that you're the very first person who's ever said that to me, and I really appreciate it, that's all." Mark wished he'd brought a box of tissues or at least a handkerchief with him so he could tenderly offer it to her like the manly guys in those cheesy chick flicks where the leading ladies cry perfect tears without ruining their makeup. Not that he's ever watched one.

"Well, it's all true," he said, finally settling on just patting her shoulder, "and you deserve to hear just how perfect you are."

"No one's perfect, Mark," she said, grinning at him with watery eyes, "but you almost are."

Maybe the sleepiness was kicking in, or maybe it was the coffee, but he had to stop for a while and process what she just told him. Did she really say he's almost perfect?

"Oh, I—I—well, I really, um…" He looked down in an odd combination of awkwardness and pleasure, a part of him wanting to run away, a greater part of him happily basking in her praise. He wasn't used to being complimented, but that one coming from Chelsea made his heart race madly and his hands sweat more profusely—even worse, the stupid, stupid lopsided grin began to materialize on his reddening face. How he hated that goofy grin and its semi-permanence and its tendency to show up at the worst of times—who on earth looks down on their knees and smiles?

"No need to be embarrassed, you know," she said. He was still smiling stupidly at his knees and trying unsuccessfully to lessen it by thinking of certain things, like Gannon in a banana suit or Vaughn in bright pink boxers (mentally scarring himself in the process), so he had no idea if she was smiling or frowning at him. "It's all true and you deserve to hear it."

Okay, now he was sure—she was teasing him. If her usage of his earlier words wasn't enough of a hint, then the smile audible in her voice was: he could hear it clearly, and he could almost see it tugging at the corners of her mouth without even looking at her. The worst thing was that his grin only widened and became even goofier despite his best efforts to wipe it off his face.

"Thanks, I guess," he said, briefly glancing at her to see if she was still crying. She was smiling slightly; her eyes were still watery and vaguely bloodshot, but at least there weren't any more tears. The lack of open hostility from her plus the earlier compliment gave him a tiny ray of hope, so he gulped audibly and dared to ask the question that begged to be asked. "So…does this mean I'm…um, rejected?"

He was about to cross his fingers and whisper, "Please say no, please say no" right in front of her but fortunately, he managed to stop himself from doing so and just settled with crossing his fingers in his head and silently praying to the Goddess and Mayor Hamilton.

"What makes you say that?" She set her cup down on the table and tucked wayward strands of hair behind her right ear, her blue eyes boring into his. Goddess, those eyes were enough to make him physically tremble without that teasing smirk that pulled a corner of her mouth upwards. He just hoped he wouldn't stutter anymore, because if his stupid grin and spleen-rupturing blushing and malfunctioning brain weren't going to ruin his chances, his stuttering would.

He shrugged weakly and cleared his throat before speaking. "Just assuming. Not that I want to. To be rejected, I mean. If I'm not, that is. Because it'd be great if I still have a chance. Not to be rejected, of course…" He paused for a while. "Can I start over?"

"No, I get it," she said, grinning widely, as if she was trying not to laugh. "You know, you're a great guy, Mark. I don't really know how to describe you. I mean…you're unique—one in a million, I daresay."

He wasn't sure if it was a good thing or not, since being "unique" to him sometimes directly translates to being "a wacko who wears his hat backwards," so he simply made an ambiguous grunting noise in his throat that might have meant either "thanks" or "I'm just imitating Jack."

"The thing is," she continued, "I've always sort of wanted someone to just listen to my ramblings, to hold me when I'm sad, to laugh with me when I'm happy, and whisper sweet nothings in my ear—things like that, you know?"

Interesting. A thought came to him, but he wasn't sure whether he should act on it or simply ignore it.

"Really?"

"Yeah. I know it sounds cheesy and clichéd, but what the heck. I'm girl."

Mark then decided to throw caution to the wind and act on it. He smiled and motioned for her to lean closer. She raised an eyebrow but obeyed; he brought his lips so close to her ear that he could inhale the sweet floral scent of her hair and gently whispered, "Sweet nothings."

She covered her mouth with a hand and chuckled loudly as she pulled away, mumbling incoherently, but he could have sworn he'd felt her shiver—he wasn't sure if it was a good sign or not. He comforted himself with the fact that he'd made sure to brush his teeth before he went to disturb Vaughn earlier, so he confidently slashed "bad breath" from his mental Things to Worry About list.

"Silly," she said laughingly, punching him in the arm—which actually hurt a bit.

He shrugged and smiled. "So, um…am I…?"

"Hm. We still don't know each other that well, so if I had a white violet right now, I'd give it to you."

His brows furrowed in thought. He wasn't an expert on flowers, but he knew what a white violet was and what it looked like. What he didn't know was what it meant. What do white violets mean, anyway? Rejection? Anger? "I'm sorry"? "Your toothpaste isn't very effective"? He felt his heart sink to somewhere around his ankles—there was a huge chance that the meaning of a white violet was something that was synonymous to rejection. He was afraid to ask, but he had to.

"What does a white violet mean?"

She looked at him seriously, her eyes twinkling. He swallowed nervously. "It means, 'let's take a chance.' "

Let's take…a chance?

A wide smile slowly made its way into his face as well as hers, and Goddess, it took all of his willpower plus a couple of silent prayers not to jump up and start dancing and singing in rapture. She was giving him a chance! His smile got even wider and he giggled—yes, _giggled, _like Will—out of giddiness. It was embarrassing, but what the heck. She was giving him a chance!

"T-thanks," he said, accidentally biting his tongue. "And yeah, the coffee was too sweet."

She chuckled and punched his arm.

"Touché."

_…_

_©2008 Marvelous Entertainment Inc. All rights reserved._

_Harvest Moon__® and __© 1998-2009 Natsume Inc._

…

* * *

><p><em>an:_

_I for the life of me could not write romance. I just can't. It just comes out way too cheesy. I would greatly appreciate tips, suggestions, constructive criticisms, and the like—anything that would help me improve. Pretty please with a steaming mug of overly-sweet coffee on...ah, never mind. Please?_

_To **pwnapple: **Just in case you're reading this, I'm sorry! I'm really, really sorry. I forgot to type the links up in the last chapter, so if you're still interested, here it is._

_www(dot)fogu(dot)com/hm/scans/manga/_

_FF won't allow me to post the link properly, so...yeah._

_Thanks for reading, guys!_


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